


Renegade's Legacy: Blood and Feathers

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has come to the end of his trials; his status as an archangel is nearly within his grasp. But when the last of Raphael's supporters begin to target the people Castiel considers family, drawing them out into the open with a dangerous and deadly case, Castiel joins the Winchesters for one last hunt as their guardian. Amid a spray of deaths and deceptions, the three must prove their mettle and prevent another angelic war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_May 20 th, 2012_

_Travelodge, Leeds, Utah_

Dean Winchester was running for his life.

            It was mostly downhill from here; he’d left the Impala parked on the road somewhere above and behind him, one dark smudge in a whole world of dark smudges, before he’d taken off into the forest. Now he was practically sliding on his ass downhill, bending over backwards to keep himself from faceplanting in old dead leaves and deer crap. His pulse was racing in the side of his neck, the base of his skull and inside his wrists and he could barely see in the murky gray-green-purple of a stormy forest at sunset.

            This sucked out loud; and he had to keep running.

            Dean plunged to the bottom of the hill and upped his pace; behind him, he could hear full-sized tree branches snapping like twigs. A smaller elm crashed past him and Dean jumped wild to avoid running smack into it. He hit the ground and his ankle twisted, buckling under him. With a groan of pain, Dean flipped himself over, feeling that unnatural coldness creeping up his spine.

            The thing’s face was half in shadow, towering above him, but he could see rotting, ropy flesh and one eye that was a muddy yellow color, cat-like pupil and bloodshot all the way through.

            The Mohera closed its teeth around his head.

            Dean sat straight up in the motel bed, sucking down air, curling one arm around his stomach. Watery gray light edged its way around the drapes, and Dean slammed his eyes shut, trying to shove out the last few traces of the nightmare.

            After a few seconds, his overworked brain registered the clicking of laptop keys from the table beside the door. “Morning.”

            Dean cracked one eye open to peer at Sam, and his throat rumbled with a halfhearted reply. He flopped back onto the pillows.

            Sam chuckled under his breath. “Sleep well?”

            “Like friggin’ Snow White.” Dean arched his eyebrows, adjusting his eyes to the brightness behind his eyelids.

            He’d been fighting nightmares ever since they’d gotten back from Japan. They weren’t as clear or as painful as the ones he’d had after Castiel had dragged him back from Hell, but they were still pretty vivid. And a little too realistic. Probably a gratuitous sideaffect of having his soul almost munched out by the Mohera.

            Not that living outside of his nightmares was that much easier. They hadn’t caught one lead on finding John since they’d seen him getting shoved into the back of a fishing boat, heading out into the ocean. They’d split up with Gwen Campbell in Chicago, let her head south while they went back to Bobby’s to pick up the Impala.

            The information she’d given them on Kaila’s group had been solid, and everything had checked out: old safehouses, names of a lot of the hunters on her side. A couple of them had been old friends of Bobby’s, but not anymore. Not if they were working with the girl who’d slit Rufus’s throat and bought John off by threatening Sam and Dean’s lives.

            The only problem: nothing Gwen had told them had given them anything to go off of on Kaila’s next move. She hadn’t reared her head Stateside yet, and it’d been two weeks. So either her ship had wrecked in the middle of the Pacific; she just wasn’t back yet; or she was covering her tracks.

            Dean sat up again, propping his shoulders against the headboard, and he blinked at Sam. “You find anything?”

            Sam clicked through another webpage, then held up one hand in resignation before thumping it down on the tabletop. “Nothing. There is, _no lore_ , at all, about the Mohera on the internet.”

            Dean stretched and got up to lean over Sam’s shoulder, one hand on the back of the chair and one on the table. “What about the books we found in John’s car?”

            Sam shut the laptop and hauled a stack of books closer, tapping his fingertips on the top one. “Other than the Coptic chronicle from Egypt, it’s a dead end. And it’s not telling us much more than what we already know.” He cocked his head slightly, then got to his feet. “There was one thing, though.”

            “Yeah?” Dean picked up a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the windowsill and gave it a sniff; smelled like a dead fish. Dean snorted and tossed it in the trashcan, watching Sam as he riffled through the drawer on the bedside table and pulled out a Bible.

            “Something occurred to me,” Sam plunked down his bed. “It’s possible someone _did_ know about the Mohera. Just not by that name.” He flipped through the pages and Dean flopped across the opposite bed, waiting for Sam to share his idea. “Here we go. Uh, ‘In that day, the LORD will punish with his sword— his fierce, great and powerful sword— Leviathan the gliding serpent, Leviathan the coiling serpent; he will slay the monster of the sea.’”

            “Okay.” Dean studied the cracks in the plaster ceiling. “What’s a Leviathan?”

            “Well, Scripture’s pretty vague about the details, but it shows up in a couple places. Like that passage, from Isaiah; uh, Psalms, the Book of Job, they all reference this,” Sam shrugged, lifting one hand. “Monster of the sea.”

            Dean cocked his head up, frowning. “What, like the Loch Ness monster?”

            “Maybe.” Sam’s tone hinted at something bigger. “Some people think it’s referring to Lucifer. But I think it might be the Mohera.”

            “I thought the thing couldn’t swim.” Dean pointed out.

            “Right, yeah. That’s what we assumed because the hunters took a boat. But this thing got to Japan _somehow_ , Dean. Chances are, it didn’t fly there.”

            Dean sat up, rubbing his hands together. “All right. So, let’s say you’re right, and this thing’s a, uh, Leviathan. S’that tell us how to kill it?”

            Sam blew out a breath and clapped the Bible closed. “No. Other than a few lines about crushing its head and feeding it to the creatures of the desert, there is _no_ lore in the Bible about how to kill the thing.”

            “Oh, great.” Dean flashed an irritated smile. “So we’re back at square one.”

            “Not exactly.” Sam had that shifty expression he always got when he was about to suggest doing something he knew from the get-go, Dean wouldn’t exactly approve of. “I think we should call Cass.”

            “Aw, Sam, c’mon!” Dean swung onto his feet and turned his back on Sam, rubbing his jaw.

“I’m serious!” Sam scrambled up behind him. “We’ve been trying to track down Kaila for two weeks, Dean. And so far, nothing. On her, on the Mohera—we don’t even know how _John_ was tracking this thing. We need more help than someone like Bobby can give us.”

Dean dug his heels in; not that he hated Castiel, and he wasn’t pissed at the guy. But Castiel had his war upstairs and Sam and Dean had theirs on earth and for some reason Dean didn’t really like the idea of getting their lines crossed. Gave him a bad feeling. “You really think this is the right time? It’s like you said yourself, dude’s up to his neck in rogue angels.”

“Yeah, and even _if_ he wins, there won’t be a world worth protecting anymore if we don’t get some help.” Sam pointed out. Dean scoffed and shook his head. “Dean. You know how bad it is out there. You saw the  reports.”

Dean glanced at the trashcan, stuffed over the top with crumbled newspapers from half a dozen states. Murders cropping up so fast and so randomly, it didn’t fit a serial killer mold or anything the FBI, CIA or PD cops could figure out. Dean and Sam knew—Mohera. It was killing like crazy, too hungry to contain itself. And more powerful than they could take down, at this point.

Dean scruffed a hand back through his hair. “Fine. Call him. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when he doesn’t show.”

Sam shot him a look that was right in between puppy-dog-eyes and bitchface, and then he sank back down on the foot of the bed. Dean grabbed a beer from the minifridge while Sam got his prayer knees in shape.

“Castiel?” Sam squinted his eyes shut, Dean kept his open. He didn’t think it mattered one way or another. “It’s Sam. Listen, we know you’re busy, with the…war in Heaven, and everything. But if you’ve got a minute, we could really use some help.” He paused, cracked one eye open for a quick sweep, then shut it again. “So, yeah. Thanks.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and took a swig of beer, washed out his mouth and spit it into the trashcan. “Told ya he wasn’t on call.”

“Sam and Dean?”

Dean groaned and looked over at the door.

The guy looked like an uptight CEO. Or an uptight CEO’s uptight assistant. Pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes that looked pretty intense.

            Sam rose, slowly; Dean could see how tense he was. “Did Castiel send you?”

            The guy ignored him. “Are you Sam and Dean Winchester?”

            He had that flippant, holier-than-thou tone that Dean usually associated with dicks like Zachariah. His least-favorite angel.

            “Who’s asking?” Dean growled.

            The angel flipped his hand and Dean launched backwards through the air, slamming up against the coffee-colored wall hard enough to crunch his lungs. Sam took an involuntary step toward him and the angel curled his other hand into a fist. Sam grabbed for his throat, his eyes rolling up into his head.

            Dean twisted, trying to wrench himself free, but they were outmatched, like they usually were when they went up against angels. And this guy definitely wasn’t looking for drinks and a good time.

            “Sorry, boys.” The angel hissed. “ _Orders_.”

            Dean yanked his head off the wall and the angel twitched his fingers, throwing Dean flat again, hard enough to jar him through the spot on his forehead where he’d gotten concussed during a fight in Japan.

            Dean was starting to slip his hold on his senses, his line of sight swarming dark and light in bursts; Sam slumped to his knees, down onto his side, and didn’t move, his hair shadowing his face. Dean couldn’t tell if he was breathing anymore.

            “C’ss…” Dean’s voice stuck in his throat, he swallowed a couple times, desperately, choking down air. “ _Cass, a little help, here_?”

            “ _Close your eyes_!”

            Dean obeyed, knee-jerk reaction, and behind his eyelids a red-hot volcanic glow sizzled through the room. The crushing force released Dean and he tumbled onto the floor, bracing himself with one arm tucked under his chest, sucking in breaths hard and fast while the dizziness colored his worldview.

            A hand landed on his back. “Did he touch you?”

            Dean swiveled his head-up with a frigid glare. “You coulda dropped in a couple minutes earlier, Cass!”

            Crouched on one knee beside Dean, Castiel didn’t look like he was in the mood to argue. “Dean! Did his hand _touch_ you?”

            “What? _No_.” Dean sat up, scouting the room. “Sam?”

            “He’s just fine.” Dean recognized that high-pitched voice; recognized the vessel, too, who was touching two fingers to Sam’s throat.

            “Ciel?”

            “Hey, there, Dean.”

            Dean sniffed, looked at Castiel. “You get Sam’s message?”

            Castiel nodded. “I came as quickly as I could. There was some—difficulty.”

            “Yeah? Like what?”

            Castiel’s mouth flattened into a hard time and he looked away. “Not here.”

            “Cass—”

            “ _Dean_ ,” Castiel cut him off firmly. “ _Not here_.”

            Dean glared at him for a second, then pushed himself up when Ciel let go of Sam. Dean couldn’t fight the relief that spilled over him when Sam’s eyes blinked open; he tossed his hair out of his eyes and sat up, staring at Ciel like he was trying to remember who she was.

            When Sam saw Castiel, Dean knew it clicked in.

            “Castiel. Hey.” Sam raked a hand back through his hair. “Great timing. Thanks.”

            “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.” Castiel rose and offered a hand to Dean; Dean let the angel drag him to his feet, since everything was still tilting fuzzy at the edges around him. Castiel crossed the room and pulled Sam up, too. “Things have been chaotic.”

            “I can believe that.” Dean rolled an ache out of his shoulder and joined them. “Who was that guy?”

            “An outspoken supporter of Raphael.” Castiel scanned the room like he was looking for someone lurking in the corner.

            “You’re still chasing them, huh?” Sam asked sympathetically.

            “It’s like digging out a tick.” Ciel complained. “Or a swarm of ticks.”

            Castiel nodded. “They’re excellent at cloaking themselves. And the battles oftentimes last for days after they begin.”

            Dean whistled. “Man, you need another vacation.”

            Castiel looked at him cock-eyed. “We are not going to Las Vegas again, if that is what you are suggesting.”

            Ciel and Sam stared at them, confused. Dean smirked dryly.

            “No thanks.”

            “Castiel.” Ciel picked up her head, looking toward the bathroom. “They’re here.”

            Dean had his hackles up for a fight before he realized Castiel and Ciel didn’t really look bothered.

            Two guys—angels, he guessed—walked out of the bathroom. One of them had a bush-sized goatee and dreadlocks; the other one looked a lot like Dean and Sam’s little brother Adam.

            Dean shoved down the guilt that flared up in his chest.

            “Sam. Dean.” Castiel motioned them forward, then nodded to the two angels. “These are my associates, Gaiaphage and Sabreael. The weapons’ master of Heaven, and the Keeper of the Keys to the Abyss. Respectively.”

            “Keeper to the Keys of the Abyss?” Dean echoed skeptically. “What’s the job description for that one?”

            Castiel almost smiled. “Who do you think possesses the keys to Lucifer’s cage, now that the Horsemen are fallen?”

            Sam pulled a sturgeon-face, then got serious. “Cass, what was that angel doing here? Why was he after _us_?”

            “Yeah, and what’s with the Ninja Turtle squad?” Dean nodded to Gaiaphage, Sabreael and Ciel. “Thought you were kind of a lone-wolf in the whole Heavenly Host.”

            “It’s complicated.” Castiel said. “And this is not a safe place to discuss it.” He turned to Ciel. “We must move, quickly. He’ll be back before long, and I would prefer if this did not turn into a battle, with so many humans nearby.”

            He strode to the bed, grabbed Sam’s duffle bag and started cramming the laptop, motel Bible and Sam’s huge dark jeans inside. Sam shot Dean a confused look; Dean rolled his eyes.

            “Cass, would you just hold on for a second?”

            Castiel ignored them, finishing with Sam’s duffle and moving onto Dean’s.

            All right, that settled it.

            “Cass! Hey!” Dean crossed the room in two steps and grabbed Castiel’s arm, spinning him around. “You wanna tell us what the hell is going on?”

            “Dean. I told you. _It is not safe here_.”

            “Well, you’re an angel. _Make it safe_.”

            “I _can’t_. It’s too late. They already know where you are. They’ll wait outside until you try to leave, and then they will ambush you. They will _kill you_.”

            “Who? Raphael’s supporters?” Sam joined them, forehead wrinkling into a frown. “What do they want with us?”

            “Dude,” Dean closed his eyes. “Tell me this is not some ‘chosen vessel’ crap.”

            “Castiel,” Gaiaphage rumbled. “We _must go_.”

            “I know that.” Castiel grabbed Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s eyes snapped open. “Dean. I need you to trust me.”

            “We _do_ trust you, Cass.” Sam said, all honesty and all, typical, _Sam_. “We just want to know what we’re up against.”

            “He’s back.” Ciel crossed the room in a blur—Dean still _hated_ when they did that—and twitched the drapes out of the way. “Oh, boy. He brought company.”

            “How many of them?” Castiel asked tensely.

            “Uh, all of them, looks like.”

            Castiel muttered something in Enochian that was either a really bad curse or a prayer for help. Dean wasn’t sure which option boded worse for them, at this point.

            “Gaia, Ciel, Rale. I want you to distract them. Meet me at the location we discussed.” He threw the Winchesters their duffle bags. “Bring the car.”

            It sank in right then what was about to happen, and Dean took a step back. “Dude, no—!”

            Castiel grabbed him and Sam by their shoulders, and Dean’s feet kicked out from under him. He saw a silvery blur, the door bursting open and people swarming the room.

            And then they were gone.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_May 20 th, 2012_

_Unknown_

 

Sam’s knees buckled the minute the world stopped whirling.

            He’d never really gotten used to being transported by angelic influence; it always left him with his limbs feeling leaden and dug a void in his midsection like he’d left his stomach back where they’d started.

            Then again, the nausea he was feeling could’ve been a reaction to the smell of the place they were in now.

            It was a rank tang of urine, engine oil and mold, multi-layered and oozing into Sam’s pores. He shook his hair out of his eyes, swallowed—his trachea still ached from the force of that angel’s crushing grip around his throat, from the inside—and cased the room they were in.

            It was long, slatted with industrial poles; concrete walls, puddles on the floor. Broken glass, from a broken window, on the back wall. The sky on the other side of the jagged, grimy shards remaining in the frame was a deep blue; so they definitely weren’t in overcast Leeds anymore.

            Dean seemed to reach that conclusion at the same time Sam did. “Where are we now, _Oz_?”

            Castiel’s eyes roved the room non-stop. “No, I did not take you to France.”

            Dean looked profoundly confused.

            “Then where are we, exactly?” Sam asked.

            “Riverside, Iowa. As I understand, it is the future birthplace of James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the Starship Enterprise.”

            “Wait, Kirk’s real?” Dean demanded.

            Castiel pinned a withering stare on him. “No. Dean, Stark Trek is just a television show.” He started circling around the room, searching the corners with his head cocked to one side. Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled glances.

            “Where’s Waldo?” Dean guessed. Sam wondered how many pop-culture references they could cram into one tail-chasing conversation.

            “No. Maolios. He’s an excellent tracker.” Castiel finally turned to face them, holding his arms slightly away from his body, palms outward. “You have questions.”

            It reminded Sam so much of a dune in California on a balmy autumn night, he couldn’t wrestle down his smile.

            “Try a whole pile of ’em.” Dean said. “You wanna throw us a shovel?”

            Castiel regarded him closely. “That’s a metaphor, isn’t it?”

            Dean rolled his eyes. “Let’s start with your little soldiers. Where’d they come from, huh? I thought you were Heaven’s rogue warrior. Y’know, the outsider.”

            “Things have changed.” Castiel sounded irritated; and Sam didn’t think he wanted to get stuck in the middle of a full-blown argument between these two.

            “We know.” Sam shot Dean a quelling look, then turned back to Castiel earnestly. “We just want to know what’s going on with you, Cass. That’s all. We’re not trying to pick a fight here.”

            Castiel’s rigid stance deflated, and that seemed to add shadows into the shadows on his face. Sam realized that the angel looked decades older than the last time Sam had seen him, in the bathroom at Bobby’s almost three months ago. Something—stress, battle, just the uneasy passing of time—had carved lines around his mouth and his eyes. He looked scruffier than Sam remembered, too; but then again, Sam’s memory had its gaps and bald patches.

            But he wasn’t imagining how worn-down Castiel looked now; he knew that for sure. In front of his followers he’d seemed to exude power. Here, with Sam and Dean, humans that he trusted, who he considered friends…the game-face fell to pieces.

            “I’m sorry I have been—all but entirely absent.” Castiel met Sam’s eyes briefly, then looked away. “And I’m sorry for bringing you here.”

            Dean opened his mouth and Sam shot up a silent prayer to an absent God that Dean wouldn’t say something insensitive and piss Castiel off.

            “You look like you’ve been wrestling lions.” Dean finally said, grudgingly.

            “That is a gross understatement.” Castiel sat on an overturned shopping cart pushed against the wall, and Sam crouched in front of him.

            “The other angels?”

            Castiel nodded. “Raphael’s followers were more numerous and far, _far_ more powerful than I could’ve imagined. There have been…hundreds of battles. Across the world. We’ve managed to whittle down their numbers significantly, but only the strongest remain. Which of course presents a problem.”

            “I’ll bet.” Sam said sympathetically.

            “So who was that dick who jumped us?” Dean asked.

            “ _That_ was Maolios.” Castiel sighed. “He must have been…listening. Waiting for your prayers, so that he could find you.”

            “And again we ask,” Dean said. “What the hell do they want with _us_?”

            “It’s complicated.” Castiel said—like he actually thought that kind of a vague answer would get him anywhere with Dean.

            “We’ve got _time_.”

            Castiel clasped his hands, stared up at Dean for a second, then hung his head again. “Raphael’s followers are a hard-headed unity, and they move as one, single-minded force.”

            “Okay,” Sam took that in. “What are they after?”

            Castiel looked perplexed, like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “The same thing Raphael was after. The weapons of Heaven. They still want to use them to open the Cage and free Lucifer and Michael, to restart the Apocalypse.”

            “Oh, _come on_!” Dean snarled. “I’m sick’a the damn _world_ ending!”

            “It only happens once every few centuries.” Castiel consoled him.

            “Really? ’Cause it seems like something’s out to annihilate mankind every other day!”

            “Dean, calm down.” Sam said. “They’re not gonna open the Cage.” He met Castiel’s eyes, feeling a flicker of doubt. “Right?”

            “That assumption has proven correct. So far.” Castiel said.

            “And how likely is it, _exactly_ , that in the future it’s gonna be proven _incorrect_?” Dean growled.

            “I can’t give you an exact number. But we’re doing all we can to prevent the Cage from being opened.”

            Sam tilted his head. “How so?”

            “Gaiaphage.” Castiel replied. “He keeps the weapons safe. Hidden. I recruited him to my—team, I suppose you could call it—shortly after Balthazar’s death.” A hidden shiver of pain ran through Castiel’s eyes when he mentioned his brother. “He’s been nothing but loyal ever since.”

            “What about Sabreael?” Sam asked.

            “Sabreael follows Gaiaphage like a living shadow. His loyalty only extends so far. But it’s imperative that I keep them…satisfied.”

            “So they don’t defect.” Sam glanced up at Dean.

            “That would be a kinder way of putting it.” Castiel said. “If they were to decide their loyalties lay with Raphael’s followers rather than with me, it would be a losing battle. It would be…next to impossible to stop them from opening the Cage.”

            “And letting out Hell.” Sam said bleakly.

            “And all the fun stuff that comes with it.” Dean crossed his arms. “So what kinda pacifier do you have to give to a baby that size, huh?”

            Castiel looked like he was weighing out the benefits of being insulted by Dean’s jab, and finally decided it wasn’t worth it. “I keep them busy. They’re well-trained soldiers, and Heaven was…keeping them contained.”

            “Contained?” Sam echoed, and before the word had left his mouth, it clicked. “Imprisoned.”

            “They allowed the weapons to be stolen. Many of the angels thought it would be a good idea to shackle them. For the time being.”

            “And you busted ’em out.” Dean grinned appreciatively. “You sly dog.”

            “How’d you do it?”

            Castiel looked embarrassed. “I implied world-ending consequences if their expertise wasn’t readily available in this fight.” He rubbed the side of his neck. “Which was not, entirely, a lie.”

            Dean whistled. “So this is it, huh? The home stretch for the angels?”

            “You could say that. The battle will come to a head. Soon. And one side or the other will emerge victorious. Much of it rests on the decisions that Gaiaphage and Sabreael will make in the days to come.”

            Sam felt a crawling in his guts; he didn’t like how dejected Castiel sounded, how far from sure he obviously was that they could win this fight.

            “That’s gotta suck,” Dean said. “Not bein’ able to trust your brothers.”

            Castiel’s head swung up. “I _do_ , trust…my brothers.” The hard look in his eyes, the pointed stare he swung from Dean to Sam and back again, explained everything his words couldn’t. Sam felt a deep-seated rush of gratitude. “It’s the other angels that worry me.”

            “Dude, have you made _any_ friends in angel daycare?” Dean demanded.

            “It’s a round-the-clock job. And yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” Castiel sat up a little straighter. “Ciel had put her faith in me completely. It’s a greater help than I had imagined. With her loyalties, and the angels that follow her lead,” He paused. “I believe we do stand a real possibility of winning this war. For the good of both Heaven and Earth.”

            Dean arched an eyebrow. “What’s the supposed to mean?”

            “It means, Dean, that if by some miracle I manage to cleanse the world completely of Raphael’s besmirchment, as I have been instructed to do, I will gain the status of an archangel.”

            Everything was quiet, for a minute, Dean staring at Castiel.

            A grin split across his face. “ _Wicked_.”

            Castiel half-smiled. “I agree. It will be more than helpful in holding Heaven together until my Father returns.”

            Sam watched the elation burst like a shorted-out lightbulb behind Dean’s eyes. “You’re kidding me.”

            “No, this is not a joke.”

            “You’ve got a friggin’ one track mind, man. When are you gonna wake up smell the lilies, huh? Your man’s gone, he’s not comin’ back, and the sooner you get over your daddy-issues the sooner you can actually function like a normal, _sane_ human being.”

            “I am _not_ , human, Dean.” Castiel’s tone was frigid, his eyes even colder. “I have far more patience than you.”

            “S’that so?” Dean drawled.

            Sam could almost feel the tension hissing through the air when Castiel rose to his feet, his gaze fixated on Dean.

            “Right now, you are testing it.”

            “All right, all right, cool off!” Sam put his back to Castiel and laid a hand on Dean’s chest. “ _Stop_ taunting him.”

            “He’s being an idiot.”

            “I don’t care!” Sam barked. “This isn’t helping.”

            “You want to let him keep lying to himself, Sam?”

            “Shut. _Up_.” Sam fused the words with as much menace as he could, and Dean finally seemed to get the point. He shoved Sam’s hand off and stormed across the room, swearing under his breath. Sam stared after him, the fight draining out to be replaced with resignation. He turned toward Castiel, who looked completely composed. Too unruffled.

            “Look, Dean’s a jerk.” Sam knew he was stating the obvious, but it helped to say it, anyway. “We’ve still got your back. _Both_ of us.”

            “Thank you, Sam.” Castiel said graciously, stiffly. “That’s an encouragement.” His eyes tracked Dean, making a circuit around the damp warehouse and finally coming back toward them. “There are very few, human or otherwise, who I would entrust with as much as I’ve trusted you. And I’m sorry. It’s a burden neither of you deserves to bear.”

            “We’ll manage.” Sam half-smiled.

            “Yes, you seem to.” A flash of hurt crossed Castiel’s face when he met Dean’s eyes for a second, then looked away. “But it’s not of import. I didn’t come to seek your help. I came to offer my assistance.”

            Sam blinked. “Is this about Japan?”

            Castiel cocked his head. “What?”

            “We, uh…we flew overseas.” Sam explained, awkwardly. Some part of him still had a hard time remembering that angels weren’t omniscient, and that, if Castiel wasn’t looking for them, chances were he usually didn’t know where they were.

            “Why did you do that?”

            “We were hunting this monster. It’s called the Mohera.” Sam hesitated. “Actually, that’s why we called you.”

            Castiel frowned. “I am not a hunter, Sam.”

            “No, I know that…”

            “Sam here thinks the Mohera is your guys’ big Kraken.” Dean butted in. “ _Leviathan_. Scourge of the seven seas? Ringing any bells?”

            “The Leviathan has been around for thousands of years. I’ve never heard of any _Mohera_.” He didn’t meet their eyes when he said it. “They can’t be the same.”

            Sam felt his only blaze of hope snuff out. “Oh.”

            “So you’ve got _no_ idea what it is.” Dean didn’t even try to hide his disappointment.

            “No. But I’m sure of one thing.” Castiel looked between them. “Your sojourn abroad might have saved your lives.”

            At the cost of Rufus’s life. And they’d lost John.

            “What do you mean by that?” Sam asked.

            “Saved us from _what_?” Dean almost talked over him.

            Castiel heaved in a deep breath. “Raphael’s supporters have reached the conclusion that their efforts are less than effective when they attack me directly. They’re resorting to subterfuge and more…underhanded methods of overthrowing me.” He squinted. “Namely, targeting the humans who were in my charge.”

            A ringing quiet dropped in while Sam tried to wrap his mind around the revelation that they were on the angelic laundry-list, _again_.

            “Explains Dwayne Johnson trying to Force-choke us earlier.” Dean said.

            “Bobby?” Sam spat out the first thing that filtered through his frozen brain. “Is Bobby safe?”

            “Bobby Singer is out of harm’s way.” Castiel assured him. Something in Sam’s expression must have reflected his doubt, though, because the angel added, “I checked him myself before I came to help you. He is currently getting drunk on a very expensive bottle of Scotch in his kitchen.”

            Sam finally forced himself to loosen up a little bit. “Send somebody to keep an eye on him. _Please_.”

            “It’s already been arranged.”

            “And what about us. Huh?” Dean asked. “It’s not like you can sit around on Holy Babysitting Detail. And I don’t know about Sam over here, but I don’t exactly play well with management from upstairs.”

            “I’m well aware of your shortcomings.” Castiel snapped, and Dean cocked his head with an offended expression. “Right now, my main concern is thwarting the purpose of their attempt.”

            “That being—?” Sam prompted.

            “Distracting me.” Castiel replied. “They want me to be defending myself, and those around me, so that I won’t be able to pursue them will all of my attention, as I should be doing.”

            “So, what’s the plan?” Sam asked.

            “I’ve made arrangements for both of you to stay in a safe place until I’ve routed the rest of the garrison. As long as you remain inside the sigils, no angel will be able to penetrate it. Including Raphael’s men, and myself.”

            “Sounds peachy.” Dean said. “Where is it?”

            “Close to where we are now.” Castiel hung his hands deep in the pockets of his tawny overcoat. “Now you understand why I needed to speak to you in private. Not even Ciel would understand all the intricacies of what’s been planned.”

            “Or how dangerous it is.” Sam added. “If one thing goes wrong, Cass—”

            “Armageddon starts all over again.” Dean finished, grimly.

            “I’m well aware of what’s at stake.” Castiel said. “For now, the best thing you can do is to trust me, and stay in the place I’ve prepared.”

            Dean met Sam’s eyes, with a subtle shrug that made it Sam’s call. He unraveled the whole thing in his head: take their chances on the run, free, or sit tight in some kind of angelic-sigil cage, waiting for Castiel’s say-so to scratch their noses.

            One choice: Castiel had a chance of winning. The other would keep his eyes pinned on them and his back exposed to the enemy.

            “We’re in.” Sam said.

            Castiel visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

            He touched two fingers to each of their foreheads, and Sam felt the gut-tugging pull of the teleportation before the world stabilized a split-second later. They were standing under the glare of high sunlight outside of a motel; wind blew dry stalks of grass flat under their feet. Iowa was in the middle of a drought.

            The only source of color in a sea of brown and green, parched vegetation, was the Impala. Dean gave her a careful once-over before directing his attention toward their living situation.

            “This is it?” He stared up at the huge sign on front of the motel. “A swanky dive? I thought you angels had better taste.”

            “We do. You, on the other hand, would complain endlessly if we put you in a fancy house.” Castiel retorted.

            “Good point,” Dean turned to face him. “Hey, Cass, lemee ask you something.”

            “Speak quickly.”

            “Are you gonna help us find John?”

            Castiel narrowed his eyes. “John?”

            “Yeah, he’s a Shapeshifter.” Sam said. “He’s a friend we’ve been hunting with, and he, uh…”

            “Some bitch monster-napped him.” Dean filled in.

            Castiel’s face pulled tight with distress. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do to help.” He swung his head up. “I must go. Get inside the sigils. You’ll be safe there.”

            A rustle of his trenchcoat, and he was gone.

           

 


	3. Chapter 3

_May 20 th, 2012_

_Blue Ribbon Motel, Riverside, Iowa_

“I’m sick of this angelic war, Sam.”

            Dean shucked his jacket off onto the skeevy motel bed and dropped iton the chair by the door, tilting it back on two legs.

            “Tell me about it.” Sam pushed his hair back and flopped down on the foot of the bed. “Angels out for our heads. Personally. Wow.”

            “Just like old times, right?” Dean scanned the room. “Think they can hear us?”

            “Better safe than sorry.” Sam hooked one foot under the bed, then frowned. He reached down and slid something out: oblong, dark and lumpy. “Huh.”

            “Well, at least they brought our gear.” Dean curled his fingers over twice and Sam tossed him the duffle, grabbed his and started rooting through it.

            Dean unzipped the bag and let most of the contents spill out, fishing for the Colt, like he did every day. Weighing it in his hand, flipping it around. Still had the bullets, still had the mojo. Dean wasn’t sure it could ice the Mohera, though.

            “I’m gonna take a shower.” Sam said.

            “Don’t use all the hot water!” Dean hollered through the closing door.

            He wrapped the Colt back up in an old sweatshirt, stowed it in the bottom of the bag and grabbed his gear.

He had one firearm cleaned and was moving onto the sawed-offs when Sam emerged, barefoot and in sweats and a t-shirt.

            Dean checked the clock, then went back to his job. “Dude, you were in there for an hour. You sure take your time primping.”

            Sam didn’t answer, just moved to his duffle bag and unzipped it. Dean watched his brother out of the corners of his eyes; watched him folding his dirty jeans and flannel shirt carefully, stacking everything inside like he was getting ready for a drill-sergeant’s inspection.

            Dean sniffed deeply and looked down. “How bad?”

            He heard Sam’s irregular intake of breath. “Really. _Really_. Bad.”

            Dean sighted down the inside of the dismembered barrel. “Hell, or Soulless?”

            “Both.” Sam worked the zipper down the bag, tooth-by-tooth, walked over to the scuffed, dusty dresser by the foot of the bed and leaned his hands on the edges, tucking his head down.

            For a couple seconds, the only sound was their breathing: Dean’s deep and even, Sam’s struggling in and out.

            It started itching under Dean’s skin; he set the cleaning brush and shotgun barrel on the bed and leaned his elbows on his knees. “You wanna talk about it?”

            “What’s to tell?” Sam’s voice was low, hoarse.

            “Sam, you can’t just keep bottling this crap up. It’s gonna kill you.”

            “It’s already killing me.” He didn’t say it angry; just like he was stating a simple fact. And it still pissed Dean off.

            “Hey!” He lurched to his feet. “I don’t wanna hear that outta you. Understand me? This is _not_. Killing you, Sam. I’m not gonna let it.”

            Sam tossed an indulgent, sad smile over his shoulder. “Dean, we’ve tried everything. We went and saw that Healer in West Virginia like you wanted to, last week. And I know why you keep stealing the laptop, man.” Dean dropped his eyes. “It’s not helping. All we’re doing is wasting time.”

            “You think it’s a _waste of time_?”

            “Yeah, Dean, I do.”

            “So what do you think we should be doing, Edison, huh?” Dean snapped.

            “Looking for _John_ , for one thing.” Sam turned to face him, crossing his arms. “Hunting the Mohera.”

            “Funny, I seem to remember you saying that was a dead-end.”

            “So is this.”

            They glared at each other, tensely, and Dean realized this was Newton’s Law: unstoppable force meets immovable object.

            Sam broke first; he always sucked at staring contests. “Now what?”

            Dean weighed his options: push the issue, try to muscle Sam into taking the shotgun on this one, follow Dean’s lead; he could knuckle under, do it Sam’s way and spend half the night up chasing his ass in circles; or they could both just let it go.

            “Now, this.” Dean grabbed Sam’s duffle, unzipped it, and pulled out the laptop. He held it up for emphasis, then dropped it into the dresser drawer and banged it shut. “First person who opens that drawer has to wash the laundry next time. Right?”

            “Uh. I guess?” Sam squinted. “What are you doing?”

            “As long as the angels have got us on lockdown, we’re gonna make the most of it.” Dean picked up the phone book off Sam’s bed and opened it on his knees, dialing the first Pizza Hut he found a number for. “You think Cass’ll pay for this?”

            “Dean. It’s lunchtime.”

            “So?”

            Forty-five minutes later they had two large pizzas, an Indiana Jones movie on Pay-per-view, and a bed apiece, and Dean had the pride of watching the tension dissolving from Sam’s face while he propped himself up on the pillows.

            Dean couldn’t remember the last time they’d done something like this; maybe Vermilion, when they’d had drinks right before the first time they’d met John. But even back then, they’d had the tension of a case and Sam’s wall breaking down hanging over their heads.

            “How’s the head?” Dean asked, flipping open the pizza box and taking a whiff of meat-lover’s heaven.

            “Better.” Sam said, and—huh. He actually sounded _cheerful_. “Thanks, Dean.”

            “Shut up and watch the movie.” Dean said; but he couldn’t stop the smile that curled across half his face with the classic intro to Raiders starting up.

            He had a feeling Sam was grinning, too.

 

 

            _Smoke on the Water_ interrupted his dreams.

            Dean flipped over onto his stomach with a groan, picking up his head.

            Six bottles of beer were scattered on the floor at the nightstand between the beds; a box of half-finished pizza was half-shoved under Sam’s bed. Dean remembered finding the rest of their beer from the last motel in the cooler in the corner, and getting down to some serious drinking after they’d finished Raiders of the Lost Ark.

            He didn’t even remember what time he’d passed out. On the other bed, Sam was about as close to Dean as he could get, his cheek mashed down in his pillow and his gangly arm dangling on the floor. Drooling all over himself.

            The cell phone kept ringing.

            Dean grabbed the clock and tilted it back: it was seven in the morning, sleeping in by Winchester standards. Castiel didn’t use cell-phones. So, probably Bobby. Probably important.

Dean sat up, rubbed a hand down his face and grabbed his jacket off the foot of the bed, fishing the phone out. Checked the number; yep, Bobby’s. He connected the call.

“It’s seven in the morning. This had better be good.”

“Well, don’t you sound like a pie full’a sunshine.”

“Eat me.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, _tell_ me you got a lead on the Mohera.”

“Nope.”

“Kaila?”

“Nope.”

“Then what the hell are you calling me for?” Dean dropped his arm and glared at the wall over Sam’s bed.

“Oh, nothing important.” Bobby said sarcastically. “Just a real, true-blue case down in Florida. Thought you two knuckleheads might be interested in saving a few lives, since all we seem to be doing is losing ’em these days.”

Dean didn’t miss the inflection in _that_ one. “How’re you doin’, anyway?”

“With what? _Oh_ , you mean with Rufus bein’ dead and all.” Bobby’s voice rippled with the fury he was choking down. Dean winced. “I’m just about to waste away, kid. Call Doctor Phil. _You want the case_ , or not?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing, Bobby.” Dean got to his feet and shuffled over to the window; looked clear outside. “Cass put me and Sam on house arrest. Anti-angel, witness protection.”

“You’re lettin’ an _angel_ tell you when you’re comin’ or goin’?”

“Them’s the rules.” Dean tucked the cell phone between his shoulder and cheek, filled up a courtesy cup with water from the bathroom sink, swished and spit. “Why? What makes this case such a big deal?”

“Four high school students turned up dead. One got hung, two were mauled, and another one looked like someone choked him to death. All from the same school. All in the same room.”

Dean put his back to the sink counter and slouched. “What are we talkin’, here, multiple pissed-off spirits?”

“You tell me, genius, you and Sam are the ones who run most of the cases in the field. Oh, _wait_.”’

“What do you want us to _do_ , Bobby? Hm? The angels wanna fry us seven ways from Sunday, the _second_ we walk out that door.”

            “I’m sorry, I musta _missed_ the part where we put our _own damned lives_ above the lives of the _civilians_ out there who need our help!”

            That bit in deep, a little deeper than Dean wanted to admit. “So you’re saying if Sam and I get deep-fried by one of Raphael’s dragoons, it doesn’t matter. As long as we’re on our way to our next case.

            “You think what you want, Dean. I’m just sayin’ it like it is.”

            Dean swiped a hand over his eyes, sighed and dug around in the pockets of Sam’s jacket, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Pulled out a pen and ripped the cap off with his teeth, spitting it across the room. “Where’d these kids die?”

            “The Old Jail. Saint Augustine.”

            “Old Jail, Saint Augustine. Got it.” Dean scribbled it on his palm. “Anything else?”

            “Yeah. Better make it fast. ’Nother couple kids went missing, aside from the four they found last night. Police are crawlin’ all over the place, but it ain’t lookin’ too bright for their futures, at this point.”

            “We’re on it. Thanks, Bobby.” Dean flipped the phone closed and stared at the blank screen for a second.

Then he moved into action.

“Sam, get up.” He gave the bed a kick in passing and Sam jerked awake, sitting up slowly and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Dean?” He yawned. “What’s goin’ on?”

“We got a case. Let’s move.” Dean threw the empty beer bottles in the trash and yanked open the dresser drawer, cramming the laptop back into Sam’s bag. His brain moved faster than his hands, running through a hundred different possibilities, a hundred different scenarios that could play out between here and Florida.

And Bobby’s voice feeding on a loop inside his head: _I musta missed the part where we put our own damned lives above the lives of the civilians out there who need our help!_

“A case?” Sam sounded a little more focused. He watched the laptop disappear into the duffle and his eyes slanted down. “ _Dean_. No. Cass told us to stay _here_.”

“Too bad.” Dean grunted. He shoved the drawer shut and wheeled around to face his brother. “Bobby called. Something’s ganking kids in this Old Jail, in Saint Augustine.”

And Sam snapped right to attention, flinging the covers off and grabbing a pair of jeans out of his bag. “The Old Jail? You’re kidding me.”

Dean stopped for a second. “You know about this?”

“Well, I mean…” Sam arched his shoulders up in a shrug. “There’s…lore about that jail that goes back half a century. I mean, most of it’s recent, but it’s pretty much the perfect breeding ground for vengeful spirits.”

“All right, so we head down there, do our thing, clean ourselves up a little ghosty problem and everyone goes home happy.

“After what Cass said? You really want to risk this?”

Bobby’s words flooded back in. “These ghosts are killing kids, Sam. Couple of ’em are still missing.”

Sympathy pulled its way across Sam’s face. “We’ll get ’em.”

Sam went into the bathroom to change, and Dean felt a punch of guilt under his ribs that he was knowingly putting, not only himself, but also his unstable brother right out in the open where the angels’ crosshairs would be on their backs.

Sam didn’t complain, though; came back out, wadded his sweats into his duffle. Didn’t even bother pulling on an overshirt. “Let’s go. It’s nineteen hours to Saint Augustine from here.”

Dean slung his duffle over his shoulder. “We’ll make it in seventeen.”

 

 

They weren’t that lucky.

They made it almost through Nashville and Dean was crashing against the window when something snapped him awake. He sat up and realized they were pulled over on the side of the road and Sam had his forehead and one hand on the steering wheel, breathing hard.

Dean didn’t even have to ask; just stared out the windshield at the foggy, empty stretch of backwater highway, and waited for the seizure to blow over.

It did, with Sam saying quietly, “You drive.”

They climbed out to switch, Sam handing Dean the keys when they passed in front of the car; almost like he didn’t have the coordination to throw. Dean clapped him on the shoulder in passing, and they hit the road again. This time with Sam curled against the shotgun door, and Dean in the driver’s seat.

He pulled over, first chance he got, at a sleepy diner outside of Antioch, Tennessee. Ordered himself a burger and Sam a salad; Sam sorta glossed over it, pulled out his laptop after a couple minutes, and started clicking.

Dean drowned his worry in bacon grease and Coke.

Ten minutes later, Sam was looking a little better, focused down on the laptop screen with pictures of whatever webpage he was researching reflecting off his eyes. “Huh.”

“What?” Dean dipped a French-fry in ketchup and eyed his brother.

“I was just digging a little deeper into the history on this place. And it’s…pretty intense. I mean, talk about unfavorable conditions.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Built in eighteen-ninety-one, closed in the late nineteen-forties. Plenty of prisoners, both male _and_ female, died there.”

Dean pointed a French-fry at Sam. “So it’s a breeding ground for vengeful spirits? As in more than one.”

“Well, uh. Yeah. Definitely, actually.”

Which pretty much confirmed what Bobby had told him. Dean smiled, satisfied, and finished off his Coke. “I thought so.”

Sam frowned at the laptop. “It doesn’t look like they’ve done a press release on the deaths yet.”

“So how’d Bobby find out?”

Sam peered at him over the top of the computer. “Dean. _Bobby_? Seriously? He has contacts out to Wazoo.” 

“Eh. Good point.” Dean brushed the salt off his hands. “You ready to hit the road?” He nodded to Sam’s untouched salad.

Sam missed the hint. “Yep. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

They took the second half of the trip with Dean in the driver’s seat, and it wasn’t like he minded; but a part of him kinda wished they could go back. To Essex, or Palo Alto, before Sam had taken that job in Memphis and lost his wall. Back when he could trust Sam behind the wheel of a car for more than a couple hours before his brain went totally out to lunch.

Sam didn’t seem too worried about it; he had his hand out the open window, making airwaves. Watching everything zooming past.

Which was how Dean could tell this seizure, or whatever he’d seen in his head this time, was really getting up under Sam’s skin.

Dean didn’t ask; Sam didn’t tell. Wasn’t worth the fight they’d have over whether or not the whole thing was a waste of time. Again. Dean was sick of seeing Sam suffering and Sam was sick of what he figured was Dean babying him, and they’re reached a crossroads and Dean knew, he _knew_ they were both too damned stubborn to go around each other to get what they wanted.

So they were stuck, squaring up, and that was the end of it.

“You mind if I, uh,” Dean gestured to the radio.

Sam gave him the world’s biggest What-Are-You-Asking- _Me_ -For? look. “No. Go ahead.”

Dean cranked it up, filling the car with a Lynrd Skynrd song. Figured. _Sweet Home_ _Alabama_ played on a loop every half hour from Indiana down through Georgia.

A couple minutes later, and Sam was tapping his thumb on the windowsill, singing along under his breath. Six and a half years on the open road had softened him up toward the Driver-Picks-Music rule.

Dean grinned. “How much longer we got?”

Sam pulled the map out from under the front seat and studied it for a minute. “Looks like…six hundred miles? Give or take a few.”

“Good.”

Dean pushed the pedal to the floor.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_May 22 nd, 2012_

_The Old Jail, St. Augustine, Florida_

The oppressive heat made wearing suits a real pain.

            Sam tugged restlessly at the collar of his starched shirt; it was too big for him, hanging loose from his shoulders and protruding away from his ribs, bagging under his arms. The overcoat he was wearing hid that, for the most part, but it just added to the uncomfortable warmth that was seeping through every pore of Sam’s body when they arrived at the Old Jail.

            Dean threaded the Impala easily between squad cars and finally parked around the corner. They climbed out into a humidity so thick Sam had to clear his throat; the warm ocean breeze made the whole neighborhood seem drowsy; except for the Old Jail itself.

            Dean tugged out the sides of his overcoat. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

            If Sam hadn’t done his research, he would’ve had to agree. The Old Jail looked more like the kind of adobo house that’d been common in this area decades ago. The only thing that set it apart from all the other residences within a few miles was the stocks out front, and the steepled watchtower.

            “Most of it’s refurbished, Dean.” Sam explained as they made their way toward the door. “The gallows, the stocks, they were all rebuilt in the last thirty years.”

            “Yeah, I’m guessing it didn’t look like a bed and breakfast back in its glory days, either.” Dean swung the white-picket gate open and let Sam in first.

            “Yeah, probably.”

            A uniformed police officer stepped into his path, one hand up. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

            “I’m detective Howe, this is my partner, detective Brice.” Sam flipped his badge briefly toward the cop, then slid it back into his pocket. “We’re here about the case involving the teenagers who died in the Old Jail?”

            The cop scoffed. “Don’t really need your expertise on that one, boys. Those four are stone, cold, dead.”

            “Yeah?” Dean squinted up at the Old Jail. “What about the three kids who went missing? Any word on them?”

            The cop’s jaw ticked. “We’re working on it as we speak.”

            “Yeah, well, less chit-chat, more elbows-in-the-mud, huh?” Dean slapped the guy on the arm and strode up the path toward the Old Jail. Sam fixed on an apologetic smile and hurried after his brother.

            The inside was swarming with cops, all of them filtering out of one room; they bypassed the staircase, moving against the flow of bodies and into the actual cells, where the bodies had been found.

            It looked like a typical crime scene, blood-spatters and cameras flashing. Sam and Dean hung back in the doorway, making an initial, visual sweep, and Sam tried to orient what he saw to what Dean had told him about the case, through Bobby’s generally-reliable word-of-mouth: four victims, all of them teenagers around the age of fourteen or fifteen. Two mauled, two died of asphyxiation. All found in the same room.

            In a place with as much history as this one—a jail where inmates turning on each other or dying from disease had been a weekly occurrence—Sam wouldn’t be surprised if there were spirits out for revenge. Still. Three spirits with three different methods of murder, attacking a group of four kids; it seemed a little off, left Sam a little leery.

            There was more to it than this. There had to be.

            When the flow of officers slowed for a few minutes, Dean stepped in first, with Sam right behind him. They approached the men who’d stayed behind, one in a Medical Examiner’s outfit and the other in a pressed, chalk-on-the-cuffs suit. A teacher.

            “Could you excuse us for a minute?” Sam addressed the Medical Examiner; he nodded and let himself out, leaving the teacher leaning against the wall with his hand cupping his mouth.

            “Hi, my name is Howe.” Sam pulled the badge out again, flashed it the man, then traded it out for the notepad and pen in the inside pocket of his overcoat. “I’m a detective. Can you tell us what happened here?”

            “Uh, yes, I can.” The teacher was watching Dean examining every corner of the cell. “Arthur Addison. I’m a band teacher at OCSA.”

“OCSA?” Sam echoed.

“Osceola County School of the Arts. I brought in two tours of students, uh, two groups. Freshmen. This was their end-of-year, sort of a reward. A three-day-long vacation to Saint Augustine, and—”

            “A tour of a haunted jail.” Dean interrupted. “Great idea, chuckles.”

            Sam resisted the urge to throw his badge at Dean’s head. “And they were in this cell when they went missing?”

            “No.” Arthur shook his head. “We were upstairs, in the Sherriff’s old office. Their alumni leader was bringing them in right behind another group. And the next thing we all knew, they were gone. Seven of them. It was just the leader and one other girl left.”

            “I see.” Sam jotted on the notepad; random scribbles, nothing important. His head was already making connections he couldn’t write on paper. “And did you happen to feel anything strange before they disappeared?”

            “Strange like what?” Arthur’s eyes shifted from Sam to Dean.

            “Cold spots?” Dean ran his hand over the cell bars. “Get a real _bad_ feeling all of a sudden, like, uh…something was watching you?”

            “No. Nothing like that.”

            “And what about the lights? Were any of them flickering?” Sam asked.

            “I don’t see what this has to do with my students _vanishing_.”

            Sam glanced down at his notepad. “You said they disappeared while their group leader was bringing them in. You didn’t happen to notice anyone around who didn’t belong there, did you?”

            “If I had, don’t you think I would’ve told the police? I don’t understand how seven _teenagers_ could be snatched right out a room without making a sound!” Arthur sounded close to panic.

            “All right, Artie, just calm down for a second.” Dean finally joined them. “What happened after that?”

            “Well, naturally, we scoured the whole building. And that’s when we found them,” His voice choked slightly and he looked away from the cell. “Dead, in this room.”

            “How long did it take you to find them?” Sam asked.

            “No more than ten minutes.”

            Dean’s eyebrows rose. “But they were mauled.”

            Arthur’s face crumbled, and he nodded.

            “Mister Addison, could you give us the name of that alumni leader?” Sam flipped to a different page on the notepad. “We’ll need to ask her a few questions.”

            “Uh, yes. Her name is Toni Pace. She’s with the rest of the students at the Days Inn Hotel, it’s not far, about ten minutes from here.”

            “All right, great.” Sam tapped the pen on the notepad and shoved them both into his pocket. “We’ll be in touch.”

            Dean didn’t say anything until they got outside. “Looked like a friggin’ bloodbath in that cell, man. And did you hear that guy’s story? Kids getting body-snatched right out in the open?”

            “It’s weird, Dean, I know that.”

            “We’re talking, weird-even-for-a-ghost, weird.”

            “Tell me about it.” Sam opened the Impala’s shotgun door.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up.” Dean leaned his elbows on the roof of the car. “I need to head into town, try and hook up with the coroner who took the bodies. See what I can find. You question jailbait and meet me back at the motel.”

“How am I supposed to get there, Dean?” Sam held up both hands challengingly. “I don’t have a car.”

“You heard the man. It’s ten minutes from here.” Dean flashed a charming smile and slid in behind the wheel.

Sam leaned in the open window. “Our motel _isn’t_.”

“Catch a bus, Pockets.”

Dean peeled out and left Sam standing there, wondering how easily he could get away with something as payback-worthy as lacing Dean’s beer with a laxative.

 

 

The Days Inn Hotel had the detriment of an outdoor pool, which meant there was no escape from the heat and humidity. Sam followed the direction of a couple of high-school students in the lobby, who told him where Toni was and what she looked like.

She was hard to miss: sitting with her feet in the pool, petite, dark haired, freckled and with a look on her face like she was a million miles away. There were a couple kids splashing in the shallow end of the pool, but they were ignoring her and she was ignoring them. And doing a good job of it.

Sam stopped beside her and toed off his shoes. “Mind if I sit?”

“Free country.” She didn’t look up at him, but at least she didn’t ignore him, either. Sam sat and let his feet sink into the water, not caring when his suit pants got wet; it was worth it.

“Pretty hot out here, huh?”

“It’s ninety degrees. In Florida, that’s cool.”

 “Good point.” Sam laid his overcoat beside his shoes and stretched, letting his wrists hang on his knees. “You’re Toni, right?”

“Last time I checked.”

            “Toni, my name is Brian Howe. I’m a detective. My partner and I, we’re investigating the deaths of the students at the Old Jail.”

            He saw Toni’s back ripple with a shuddering breath. “What’s there to investigate? Some psychotic douchebag murdered them.”

            “We’re working on that.” Sam replied. “You’re an alumni from OCSA, right?”

            Toni tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I go to Indiana University. My parents flew me home for the summer.”

            “So you volunteered at your old high school?” When she nodded, Sam half-smiled. “You must’ve had some good memories there.”

            “I did. I just can’t think of them right now.”

            “No kidding.” Sam braced his hands on the edge of the pool. “Listen. I know how hard it must be to talk about this—”

            “Not really.”

            “Uh.” Sam blinked. “Come again?”

            “I mean, it sucks. And I know everybody else is in there, crying their eyes out.” Toni jerked her head toward the hotel. “I just want to help. Those kids were my job, they were my responsibility. I can’t save the ones who already died, but if there’s anything I can do to make sure those other three don’t die…sign me up.”

            “Okay. Uh-m,” Sam stared down at the bright blue lining of the pool. “Well. I got the story from the band teacher. He said you were bringing your group into the Sherriff’s old office, and that he turned around and seven people were missing?”

            Toni nodded. “I know is sounds really out there. You’d pretty much have to be a mutant or something to grab that many people and just—evaporate. But I swear to God, that’s what happened. We didn’t even hear anything. They were just…gone.”

            “What about the other girl from your group, the…one who didn’t get taken?”

            “Lauren? She’s on the phone with a guidance counselor. It really freaked her out, she keeps having nightmares that something is coming for her.” Toni rubbed her ribs absently. “Do the cops have any leads?”

            “Not that I know of. But we’re…not exactly working this case together. I’m sure they’d’ve already let you know if they found anything.”

            Toni laughed sharply. “Yeah, right. I’m just a wellspring of information. I’m pretty sure they think I’m an irresponsible bitch, because I couldn’t keep those kids safe.”

            “You did everything you could.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Right. Like that makes everything better. Four people are still dead and three more are still missing. So forgive me if I don’t think my best was good enough.”

            “Point well taken.” Sam said quietly. “But if you tell me what I need to know, you can still help.”

            “Go for it.”

            “When you were in the Old Jail,” Sam said, carefully. “Did you notice anything strange going on? Did you feel any unnatural cold spots? Or, maybe the lights were going on and off?”

            “Nope, not that I can remember.” Toni leaned her weight back on her hands. “There was this one thing, though…”

            “What’s that?”

            “When we were searching the house, after they disappeared, I kept hearing barking. Like a Rottweiler, not a lapdog. And then it stopped, out of the blue, and that’s when we found them.”

            “Are you sure they weren’t neighborhood dogs?” Sam asked.

            “Positive. It was _inside_ the jail.”

            A damp chill skittered its way up Sam’s spine. He dug through the pocket of his jacket and pulled out of the business cards they’d made at a copier shop months ago. “Thanks, Toni. That helps a lot.” He handed her the card. “This is my cell number. If you think of anything else, _anything_ , just give me a call.” 

            “Okay.” Toni flipped the card over and held it up over the sun, warding off the glare. “If you find whoever did this, will you tell me?”

            “Yeah. You bet.”

            Sam was lying through his teeth, and he knew it.

            Some secrets just had to stay that way.

 

 

            It’d been a few weeks since Dean had been in an autopsy lab.

            He’d forgotten how much he hated the smell of antiseptic and latex gloves.

            The ME was a guy named Randal Fagan, around Bobby’s age, with a cup of coffee glued to his hand and punch-dark circles under his eyes anyway. He led Dean to a stainless steel body cabinet and slid out the bottom tray, third on the left.

            “This was the cleanest vic we had. DeVon Lopez.” Fagan pulled the black blanket off the body and Dean took a look: kid had to be fourteen, skin so dark Dean almost missed the abrasions on his neck.

            “Got a cause of death?”

            “You wouldn’t believe it.” Fagan said ironically.

            “Try me.”

            “Whelp, he was hung. Neck snapped, a pretty clean break.”

            “Hung.” Dean echoed. “There weren’t any nooses or anything at the crime scene. And whoever did this woulda had to drag him, with six other kids, down to the cells before he could string him up.”

            “Like I said. Unbelievable.” Fagan flipped the sheet back up and closed the tray, going for the second one, next row up. “Second body. Louise Columbiana. He was thirteen; a grade ahead.”

            This kid was pale, so it didn’t take long to figure out the cause of death.

            “Strangulation?” Dean tugged gently on the edge of the kid’s throat. The purple bruises stood out like a choker collar. “Manually?”

            “Somebody with fingers like steel. We’re looking at crushed vertebrae, massive hemorrhaging of the larynx. His windpipe is halfway inside his esophagus.”

            “You know of anybody strong enough to do that?” Dean looked up.

            “No human being without some strong drugs or alcohol in ’em.”

            “Well, that’s a theory.” Dean swept the corpse with one more glance. “You said these two were the clean ones?”

            Fagan curled one finger over twice, motioning Dean to follow him. He shut the stainless steel tray and led the way through a locked door on the backside of the room, flipping on lights on the way in.

            There were two autopsy tables in here. Bodies on both. Dean waited by the door while Fagan finished off his coffee, tossed it and dragged back the tarp on the first body.

            Dean had seen a lot of pretty horrific crap in his life. He’d done a tour in Hell; kinda made a man see a things he didn’t want to see, couldn’t forget seeing. The kind of stuff that ran through his nightmares, every night.

            This was different; not like Hell. Five-senses, disturbing. Dean put a hand over his mouth and blinked the memories away for a second before he could focus.

            Hard to tell that these tangled, sorry scraps of meat used to be humans. They were twisted inside-out, wearing their guts for clothes with their shirts stuffed into their chest cavities. Eyeballs gone, no teeth—like they’d been picked apart by carnivore vultures.

            “Gruesome, isn’t it?” Fagan almost sounded bored. Dean figured, a man in his position kinda got that way after a few years. “The reports said they were both fifteen. Amanda Pelham and Drake Pierce.”

            “Any idea what did this to ’em?” Dean asked around his fist.

            “Not a damn clue, son. I’ve been in this business twenty-seven years and never saw a thing like it. Made my stomach turn when they brought these two in.” Fagan held the sheet up. “Need a better look?”

            “Thanks, I’m good.” Dean mumbled, watching the white-washed walls until Fagan covered the bodies back up. “Looks like they got mauled.”

            “That’s the word on the street, from what I hear.” Fagan clicked off the light and pressed a folder into Dean’s hands.  Dean followed him back out into the main room, flipping through the file on the way.

“Their parents sent you these pictures?” Dean asked, studying the classroom portraits of the two kids.

“They did. Amanda would be sixteen next week.”

“Poor girl.” Dean shuffled through the record briefly. “You mind if I keep a copy of this?”

“By all means, take it. I had my assistant scan everything when it came in, we have our records.” Fagan waved a hand dismissively, stripping off his latex gloves and dropping them in the trashcan by the door. “You know, there’s a funny thing about all of this that just gets me.”

            “What’s that?” Dean sniffed; the antiseptic tang was better than the fleshy smell from inside the locked room.

            “On both those boys who showed up strangled, there wasn’t a single sign of a struggle. No genetic material under the fingernails, no signs of any bruising apart from the obvious.”

            Dean rubbed the back of his neck, leaning his elbow and hip against one of the exam tables. “What’s that mean?”

            “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d wager to guess they didn’t fight their attacker much at all.”

            Dean figured it couldn’t hurt to test the waters, figure out what this guy was thinking. “Because he killed ’em too fast.”

            “Well, if that was the case, then how did he manage to get them downstairs, beaten into pulp, strung up and choked to death?” Fagan poured himself another cup of coffee with his eyebrows up. “Wouldn’t _you_ be fighting back?”

            “So the whole thing doesn’t make sense.”

            “You could say as much, son. There’s never been a case like it in this lab before. It gives me an awful bad feeling, kids dying this way. And those three that are still missing, that worries me the most.”

            “Yeah.” Dean agreed. “If some raging psychopath did this kinda work in ten minutes,” He met Fagan’s eyes wryly. “What’s he gonna do with a day and a half on his hands?”

            “I shudder to think.” Fagan drank half the cup of coffee in one swallow. “It’s a mystery, that’s for sure. And a damned tragic one.”

            Damned tragic. That kept circulating in Dean’s head the whole way out to the Impala, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. Four kids dead, three causes, and apparently they’d all gotten yanked out of that room in the Old Jail by the same supernatural force.

            Problem was, ghosts usually had a pretty specific method for taking out their victims. And a lotta times there were parameters on who they would kill: one sex, one race, hair color, eye color, age, _something_.

            There were four kids: three boys, one girl, black-haired, blonde, ginger. Same school, but other than that, didn’t look like they had much in common, just from looking at the file. So either he was missing something pretty big, or they had a super-charged spirit just ganking anybody it wanted to.

            Dean tossed the file folders onto the seat, slid into the car and shuddered off the memory of the mutilated corpses before he set his sights on the nearest Taco Bell and some good food to take his mind off the case.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_May 22 nd, 2012_

_The Seabreeze Motel, St. Augustine, Florida_

“Dude, I think everybody wanted Taco Bell at the same time tonight. I had to kill an old lady to get these Fiesta Potatoes for you.”

            Dean threw the plastic bag of fast-food on the desk beside the door, and got the satisfaction of seeing Sam almost jump out of his skin where he was sitting on the bed, surfing the laptop.

            “Hey.” Sam sat up. “You find anything at the coroner’s?”

            “Oh, I found a lot.” Dean dished out the food, tossed Sam his potatoes and grabbed three tacos and the stack of reports from the ME’s office for himself. “First things first, you talk to the girl?”

            “Yeah.” Sam want back to the laptop, banging on the keys for a few seconds.

            “ _And…_?”

            “Uh, all seven kids who disappeared came from her group. She wants to help us find them. And,” Sam spun the laptop on his knees toward Dean. “This.”

            Dean leaned forward, one hand braced beside Sam’s legs, to get a better look.

            “What am I lookin’ at, here?”

            “The girl, Toni Pace, said she heard dogs barking. _Inside_ the Old Jail. Right before they found the students—”

            “Looking like they got mauled?” Dean finished.

            “Yeah.” Sam gave him a weird look. “Exactly.”

            Dean rolled his tongue against the inside of his lower lip. “There aren’t any dogs in the prison.” He flipped open the coroner’s reports and dropped them on the bed beside Sam. “One strangled, one strung up, two of ’em were chew-toys.”

            Sam grabbed the top file and laid it open in the crook of his arm. “Well, that makes sense.”

            “Sam, how does any of this make sense?”

            “I mean, it fits the lore.” Sam explained. “Eight people hung at the gallows in the Old Jail, so that explains the student being hung. There was a warden, a Sherriff, uh, Charles Joseph Perry.” Sam turned the laptop back around, eyes flicking from the screen to the report and back again. “It sounds like he ruled the place with an iron fist.”

            Dean sat back. “The kinda iron fist that would strangle someone?”

            “Actually, that’s possible. I did some research—”

            “When _don’t_ you do some research?”

            Sam shot him a bitchface. “There was a complaint against Perry in the early nineteen-hundreds, a few years after the prison was built. There was a small-scale riot and one of the inmates was found in a cell downstairs, with his—”

            “Throat crushed.”

            Sam nodded. “Perry was a big guy, I mean, we’re talking—six and a half feet tall, three hundred pounds. He could snap somebody’s neck without a problem. The prisoners screamed bloody murder, but no one ever wanted to look into it. Perry got off clean. It wasn’t even really a case.”

            “So that explains the strangling, the hanging…we’ve still got Bupkiss on the ground beef.”

            “Maybe not.” Sam said thoughtfully. “Toni said she heard dogs barking. That fits the lore, too.”

            “What, was this guy summoning Hellhounds?”

            “Depends on what you call Hellhounds.” Sam smiled dryly. “Perry kept dogs in a kennel behind the Old Jail. Sort of as a…living threat to the people inside. There are some more buried reports, old county files about dogs mauling prisoners.”

            “Yeah, well, I’m guessing the Ghost of Rin-Tin-Tin isn’t haunting the place.”

            “Which really leaves one option.” Sam leaned back against the headboard.

            They said it in unison: “Perry.”

            Dean rolled his eyes, kicked his feet up on the bed and crossed his arms. “So he’s sic’ing his ghost-dogs on these kids, stringin’ ’em up, and strangling them.”

            “Question is, why? What’s the motive?”

            “And why leave the other three alive?”

            Sam’s eyes pulled tight in that classic wounded puppy look that meant he was so worried he was about to flip out. “Good question.” He cleared his throat and turned back to face the laptop.

            He went back to clicking on the thing while Dean ate his tacos; and noticed Sam wasn’t even touching his potatoes. He frowned; last time he’d seen Sam go on a fast, the kid had ended up overdosing on painkillers and getting higher than a kite.

            “Sam, are you gonna—?”

            “That’s it.” Sam scrambled up, almost knocking the laptop on the floor.

            “That’s…what?” Dean blinked, confused.

            “The files, give…gimmie the files.” Sam held out his hand. Dean picked the ME’s reports and slapped them down in Sam’s hand, switching from the chair to the bed beside him so he could look over Sam’s shoulder.

            “What are you looking for?”

            “Uh. Juvenile records.” Sam rumpled his shoulders. “I hacked the police database.”

            “Rebel.”

            Sam cut him a sideways glare, then focused down on his job again. Dean followed the fast clicks and page-surfing Sam was doing, until he finally stopped: on a mug shot of a kid who looked a lot like—

            “DeVon Lopez.” Sam scoffed lightly, under his breath. “Two DUIs, two counts of underage drinking. Jack Pierce, aggravated assault. Tried as a minor, got off with one hundred and eighty hours of community service.”

            “Upstanding citizens.”

            “Dean, that’s the pattern.” Sam said. “These kids—listen. Amanda Pelham, accused of dealing drugs at her last high school. Never proven. All of the kids that died, they were all—”

            “Criminals.” Dean finished.

            “Exactly. Maybe _that’s_ how he’s choosing his victims. He’s grabbing kids with a history of getting in trouble with the law. Kids who _he_ thinks should be punished.”

            “Still doesn’t explain why the son of a bitch didn’t kill all seven of ’em.” Dean lobbed his taco wrapper into the trash. “So, we find out where they buried Perry?”

            Couldn’t help it; had to smirk at that little piece of alliteration.

            “It won’t be that easy.” Sam frowned. “Perry died in his office, February seventh, nineteen-nineteen. But there’s no record of where he was buried. Or, if he even _was_ buried. They might’ve cremated him.”

            “Which means we gotta find a piece of him floating around in that jail.”

            “Pretty much.”

            “Yeah, we’re screwed.” Dean climbed off the bed, running his hands through his spiky hair and walking to the window. He turned back to face Sam, hands perched loose on his waist “Sam, we gotta finish this and get back to Iowa before Cass finds us.”

            Sam swung his legs off the bed. “I agree. But Dean, we may not be able to stop the spirit. Or…not right now, anyway.” He got that really intent look on his face. Dean _hated_ that look. “We should go look for those kids.”

            “What, with the ghost of Ahab’s Revenge running around?”

            “If we wait to salt and burn whatever’s left of him, they might already be dead!”

            “Just because rush hour’s worse doesn’t mean we’re gonna run out playing in traffic _now_!”

            “We don’t have a choice!” Sam insisted. “You remember that Rawhead we faced in that basement  few years ago? We knew it could’ve killed us, but we got those kids out. Because that’s our _job_.”

            Dean didn’t bother bringing up the fact that he’d ended up with one deep-fried heart attack to-go after that case. “So, you wanna just storm the place? Hm? With the way things are right now?”

            “What are you talking about? Things are fine.”

            “Really?” Dean picked up the other bag of fast food and chucked it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it, and he looked pissed. “You wanna tell me why you’re not eating?”

            “I ate half a pizza two days ago!”

            “Yeah, and you haven’t touched food since then. That’s, what, six squares you’re missing? You used to eat like a horse.”

            “Since when do you police my eating habits, Dean? It’s not like we ever sit down to Sunday Brunch like normal people.”

            “ _Since when do I care_? Since it’s my job to look after you! Y’know, make sure you don’t drop dead of a heart attack!” Dean rubbed a hand down the stubble on his jaw. “Would you just—tell me what’s going on? Is it the dreams? Huh? The Hell-visions?”

            Sam suddenly took a huge interest in his massive hands. “Dean…”

            “Dammit, Sam, we used to talk about this stuff! We used to drive, in the friggin’ car, and you’d tell me when you were dealing with psychic crap and I’d let you know if I thought the world was coming to an end!” It just kinda gushed out of him; not like he could stop it. “And yeah, it was tough, and we took a couple swings. But things worked out a hell of a lot better than these suicide missions in to the middle of nowhere ’cause you feel like you’ve gotta prove a point!”

            Sam’s head veered up so fast Dean was pretty sure he gave himself whiplash. “What am I trying to prove, Dean? Huh?”

            “That you’re not some broken-down, washed-out half-a-hunter because these seizures keep getting worse, and they’re putting you under!”

            Sam surged onto his feet, six-foot-four of pissed off younger brother, and the next thing Dean knew he was crunched into a corner with his jaw swelling and Sam’s fist cocked back to deal him another round of hurt.

            “Do it.” Dean challenged him. “You can hit me until we’re both red in the face. It won’t change anything. And deep down, I think you know that.”

            Sam sank his fist into the wall beside Dean’s head instead, then jerked away and turned his back on Dean; maybe in more ways than one. Dean knew he’d pushed Sam, dropped sparks on that oily hole of rage that was always right under the surface. And this was probably the worst time to do it, too.

            But dammit if he wasn’t worried; and Sam wasn’t eating. And when this case was done, Dean wanted to drag Sam to _someone_ —angels, priests, who-the-hell-cared—just to get him fixed. So he could go back to being _Sam_ again, without the whole weight of a planet on his shoulders and that stubborn streak two miles wide that wouldn’t let him share the load.

            “Sammy, I just want you to quit lyin’ to yourself.” Dean said hoarsely. “This isn’t working and we both know it.”

            “This isn’t—?” Sam spun back around to face him and he was practically breathing fire. “ _You’re the one who dragged me back into this in the first place_! You’re the one who— _kidnapped_ me from Bobby’s and _made_ me go with you!”

            “I _know_ that!”

            “Then quit _acting_ like this is my fault! I have a hole in my _head_ , Dean. It’s not getting better, it’s not going away. I’ve known that from the start. You know who was lying to himself about it? _You w_ ere! You’ve been lying to yourself this whole time!”

            “I couldn’t just leave you stewing in your juices at Bobby’s, Sam.”

            “Why the hell _not_?”

            “Because you’re my _brother_!”

            Sam opened his mouth to answer and cut off when his cell-phone started ringing. He grabbed it off the bedside table, checked the Caller ID and answered it. “This is Sam.”

            Dean turned back toward the window, staring outside; lightning was sizzling in the clouds. Florida storms; Dean hated this state. Hated the humidity, hated the ocean, hated this feeling like a fist squeezing tight on his lungs.

            He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought getting Sam’s soul back would make things the way they used to be.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down.” Sam said, and Dean looked back over his shoulder, interested. “Toni. Slow down. Who went missing?” Sam listened for a second. “The other girl from your group. All right, we’ll come and meet you.” He cocked his head. “Wait, you’re sure?”

            “Sure about what?” Dean swung the chair from the desk around and straddled it, crossing his arms on the back. Sam made a ‘shut up’ motion and Dean flipped him off, resting his chin on his wrists.

            “Uh, yeah.” Sam grabbed the stationary off the bed. “It’s the Seabreeze Motel. Two-oh-eight Anastasia Boulevard. We’re in room twelve.” He dragged a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, we’ll be here.”

            He dropped the call and met Dean’s eyes. “That was Toni.”

            “And?”

            “She wants to meet us. She says the girl from her group that didn’t get snatched? She just went missing. From their hotel room.”

            “Wait, so Perry’s bungee-jumping this girl? How the hell is he getting out of the Old Jail?”

            “We’ve dealt with traveling spirits before. I mean, they’re rare, but if this girl did something Perry thought was punishable—”

            “Then why didn’t he just grab her in the jail, Sam? Huh?” Dean rocked the chair forward on two legs. “This whole thing is crazy.”

            “Tell me about it.” Sam grabbed the shotgun off the bed beside him and shoved it into his duffle. “But this girl needs our help, Dean.”

            “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean sat back and stared at the ceiling, then scooted onto his feet. “You know what I don’t get?”

            “What?” Sam didn’t look up from scattering the salt in the doorway.

            “Where’s the whole angel posse Cass was threatening us with? ’Cause we’ve been down here for a day already, we’ve been outta that tattooed motel for a while and nobody’s trying to jump us.”

            Sam sucked his bottom lip in, his forehead scrunching. “Yeah. That is weird.” He shut the laptop on his way to the bathroom. “Let’s just hope our luck holds out.”

            “If it wasn’t for bad luck,” Dean muttered; didn’t bother finishing that sentence. Sam shut the bathroom door and Den rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling; great time, cutting smack into the middle of a Winchester War. Not that Dean really thought it was over. As far as their fights went, there was always another time.

            Fifteen minutes later, a fist pounding on the door distracted Dean from the file he was flipping through, sitting on his bed. He tossed it onto the pillow and got up, pulling the deadbolt back.

            The door slammed inward, almost smacking him in the face. Four-feet-eleven-inches of pissed off college student barged under Dean’s arm and stopped in the middle of the room.

            Sam walked out of the bathroom drying his hands on a towel. “Toni, hey.”

            “Pushy girl you dragged home, Sam.” Dean swung the door shut.

            Toni crossed her arms and looked from Dean to Sam and back again. “Okay, why are you here?”

            “Uh,” Sam cocked his head. “To...help you find your friend?”

            “She’s not _missing_ , I just wanted your address.” Toni snapped.

            “Oh, I like her.” Dean said sarcastically, dropping down on the foot of the bed. “Waste our friggin’ time…”

            Sam threw the hand-towel onto the mini-fridge in the corner. “Toni, what’s this really about?”

              Toni glared at him, green eyes spitting sparks. “Those questions you were asking me earlier? Cold spots? Flickering lights? That’s not the kind of stuff _detectives_ usually ask.” She cocked her hip out. “You think I don’t know why OSCA chose the Old Jail for an extra-curricular at the end of the year?”

            “Enlighten us.” Dean sat back and crossed his arms.

            “It’s haunted. Right?” Toni glared from Dean to Sam and back again. “That’s what makes it a tourist trap. People think the spirits of the old inmates are running around, shoving people and laughing in the hallways.”

            “How did you—?” Sam began.

            “I do my research.” Toni shrugged. “So? What are you guys, some freak paranormal investigators trying to make a joke out of those kids going missing?”

            “No. It’s not like that, I swear.” Sam had his puppy-eyes on full power. Dean had to hope that’d work, because he really didn’t want this chick calling the cops on them. “Listen. You’re right. We’re not detectives. Those are our aliases, all right? But we do want to help.”

            “Well, why the funky questions? Huh? I mean, you don’t _actually_ think a bunch of ghosts did this, do you?” When Sam didn’t answer, just slid his eyes toward Dean, Toni leaned toward him. “ _Do you_?”

            “One. Ghost. Actually.” Sam mumbled toward the powder-blue carpet.

            “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. _Are you stupid_? Ghosts _aren’t real_!”

            Dean propped himself up on the pillows. “Oh, yeah? Then how else do you explain seven people go missing, in the same _split-second_ , and turning up three kinds of dead ten minutes later.”

            Toni lifted her chin. “Serial killer.”

            “This ain’t Dexter, sweetheart. This is real life. Nobody’s that good.”

            “Exactly, this is _real life_! Not a stupid ghost story. You’re both crazy.”

            “Are we?” Dean challenged. “’Cause so far, I’m not hearing a better explanation for what happened down there.”

            Toni’s stony expression wavered a little bit. She rubbed the back of her head and then sighed. “Okay. Look. There was this one thing…I thought I was just a little dehydrated or too tired. Seeing things.”

            “Here. Sit down.” Sam pulled the chair out from the desk again and Toni sank down in it. Sam sat on the foot of Dean’s bed. “What did you see?”

            “It was this guy.” Toni said. “Mister Addison had me searching the kitchen in the Old Jail for my group, and that was where I saw him.”

            “Okay. What did he look like?” Sam questioned her with that whole calming routine Dean had watched him working over on people for—hell, for decades. One of the things he’d missed when Sam was running around without a soul: getting to be a team with him. Watching Sam work his magic on people Dean brushed shoulders with the wrong way.

            Half the hunters they were, they’d been born that way. Fitting each other, working together. It was in their blood.

            The other half, their dad had trained them up.

            Thinking about that hit Dean like a punch to the guts; made him want to drop everything, all over again, and find John. He cricked his neck, shoved that one down and tried to focus in on what Toni was saying.

            “Um. He wasn’t that tall. Maybe his height?” She nodded to Dean. “He had short gray hair. A close shave on the top, um, almost a buzz-cut.”

            “Anything else?

            “He was really pale. And he kept—he was doing this really weird glitchy thing. Like he was phasing in and out.”

            Dean leaned forward. “Like bad reception on a TV?”

            “Yeah, exactly.” Toni looked down at her hands. “And I guess it did feel—cold in that room. Really cold. And then he tried to grab me, around my waist,” She hiked up her shirt, showing them a huge rug-burn-red scuffmark on her ribcage. “But I got away. And that was when we found them.”

            She didn’t really need to explain that one.

            Dean lurched onto his feet. “Sam, can I talk to you for a second?”

            “ _Sam_?” Toni echoed sharply.

            “Uh. Brian Howe…isn’t my real name.” Sam smiled sheepishly and followed Dean into the motel’s mini-kitchen. Once they were out of eyeshot, Dean faced him.

            “I might be losin’ my mind, but wasn’t Perry—”

            “Tall, balding and tan?” Sam tilted his head. “Yeah.”

            “So we’re lookin’ at multiple ghosts again?

            “Dean, that doesn’t make sense. The causes of death all fit Perry’s history.”

            “Static form? Cold spots? Sounds like a spirit to me.”

            “Just,” Sam’s jaw shifted. “Look. Multiple ghosts or not, we still have to find those kids.”

            Dean sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_May 22 nd, 2012_

_The Seabreeze Motel, St. Augustine, Florida_

 

Fifteen minutes.

            That was as long as Sam could give Toni to figure out if she was forgetting any details; which she wasn’t, not that she could remember. She offered to talk to Maria, the alumni leader of the second tour group, but she didn’t sound hopeful that it would yield much of a result. Facts were facts, firsthand or by somebody else, and Sam wasn’t sure there was much else they could find that would help anything; and nothing was going to change what they had to do.

            Fifteen minutes, and Sam was ready to spring his skin. Like he’d told Dean, it didn’t matter _how many_ ghosts they were facing, the important thing was _being there_ to face them, canvassing that Old Jail, tearing it apart to find the three students that were still missing. Sam wasn’t much for praying, these days, but he said one under his breath anyway, splashing cold water on his face and watching the room behind him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

            Dean was talking to Toni, thawing her out a bit; which hadn’t proven to be half as hard as Sam had expected. The girl was tired, still in shock, and underneath the attitude and bluster: scared. As far as she knew, she’d been inches away from the same insidious death that had stolen four kids from a crowded room. So, survivor’s guilt; had to be a little of that, too.

            Sam had been there, done that. He could relate.

            Right now, Sam had a problem of his own: burning hot and cold, with a ratcheting pain above his left ear, both a surefire sign that a seizure was probably on the way. The worst possible time: now, when they were planning to crash the crime scene at the Old Jail. Neither one of them could really deal with Sam dropping in the middle of that kind of a fight.

            Sam knew what he _could_ do; after he’d dug himself out of the pit of his broken mind and rediscovered his memories, Dean had started snatching prescription painkillers again, just in case. Sam knew he could, and probably _should_ , take a couple just to keep the headache at bay; but given how things had ended in Vermilion, Sam was leery of taking the chance.

            A pop-psychologist would probably label him with an addictive personality; Dean would say he had a healthy appetite. Either way, once Sam sank his teeth into something he wanted, it was usually hard to pull away.

            He palmed a handful of cold water down his face and straightened up, shutting off the sink and joining Toni and Dean in the main room again.

            Toni was sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, her feet almost off the floor. “Taeisha, Ricardo and Kimberly. Those were the other three that went missing.”

            “Right.” Dean scrawled the names down on the inside of his arm with a Magic Marker; skin was handier than a pad of paper, and didn’t have to be dug out and flipped open to be read. “And were any of these people, uh,” Dean made air quotes around the term: “‘ _Bad kids_ ’?”

            “Well,” Toni squinted one eye shut. “I mean, they had their problems. But they all did. All the students, I mean.”

            “And they just _happened_ to put all the students with a criminal record in one group?” Sam asked, lowering himself into the empty chair. Dean’s jacket was draped across the back of it and a smell of leather and whiskey reached up to meet Sam like a hug. It helped steady his swirling head.

            “How much to do you guys know about this project?” Toni raised an eyebrow.

            “Project?” Sam and Dean echoed.

            “It’s a new thing at OCSA this year; these kids are all super-talented, but they keep dropping out of regular high-schools. Or they get kicked out on bad behavior. OCSA takes them on, full-scholarship, and tries to turn them around and get them back on the straight and narrow.”

            “Sounds risky.” Dean commented.

            “It is, and the school knows it. But those freshmen just completed their first full year of public schooling in _who-knows-how-long_.”

            “And the trip to the Old Jail was their reward.” Dean rocked his head around toward Sam, catching his gaze. “Which means every single kid here—”

            “Is a target.”

            Toni  pulled one leg up under her body. “What, you mean this ghost, or whatever it is, it’s targeting hard-luck kids?”

            “Not exactly.” Dean pointed to her. “It’s targeting people who have broken the law. Ever.”

            “Ever.” The word sounded like it squeezed out of her.

            Sam studied her; eyes slanting left, her fingernails picking a loose thread on the cheap, thick bedspread. Sam leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands.

            “Have you ever done anything like that, Toni?”

            “What? _No_.” She burned him with a stare so hot and self-righteous, Sam felt his skin prickle.

            And he held her eyes, waiting.

            Finally, Toni huffed a sigh and dropped her head. “Once. Junior year. I went to this party and had some shots, it was no big deal.”

            “Were you underage?” Dean capped the Magic Marker and shoved it in his back pocket with the man-in-charge look he’d always used to get information out of Sam when they were growing up.

 Sam had the interrogative and cajoling skills to be a lawyer. Dean had the don’t-ever-back-down skill to lay even lawyer-Sam open in two minutes flat and have him divulging his darkest secrets.

            Most of the time.

            Toni pursed her lips and didn’t say anything, combing her hair forward with her fingertips. A faint reddish flush across her cheekbones made her freckles stand out like dapples of mud.

            “Oh, crap, you were.” Dean groaned.

            “It was just that one time!” Toni replied defensively.

            “That’s all it takes.” Sam pushed himself to his feet. “You have to stay here, Toni. We can’t take you with us.”

            Toni lurched to her feet right behind him. “Yes, I can! You _have_ to take me with.”

            “Yeah, give us one good reason why we should?” Dean said frankly.

            “Because _I_ was in charge of those people! They were _my responsibility_. And I let four of them _die_.” Her voice broke on that last word and she flattened her mouth into a thin white line, her eyes glistening overbright.

            Sam’s fervor softened, adapting from stubborn to compassionate. “Toni, I know you want to help. And I wish you _could_. But the best thing you can do right now is stay here, where it’s safe.”

            “Why? What makes me so _special_ that I can’t risk my life to save the people I’m responsible for?”

            Sam didn’t think he was imagining the way Dean avoided his eyes.

            “Because we said so.” Sam pulled a can of salt from his duffle under the bed.

            “Well, good for you. You’re not my dad.”

            “No, but you sure sound like an arrogant child.” Dean muttered under his breath.

            Toni burned a hole in him with her glare. “You’re going to do it. Right? You’re going to hunt this thing.”

            “That’s the plan.” Sam said quietly, crossing the room to lay a strip of salt on the windowsill and another around the door.

            “Then don’t you need all the help you can get? I’ve shot a gun before.”

            “It’s not that simple.” Dean cut her off. “Me and Sam, we’ve got this figured out. We’re a team. Throw a civilian in the mix and it screws everything up. We’ll be spending the whole time trying to keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t drop dead.”

            “And if you fit the profile of a victim, that makes it ten times worse.” Sam added.

            “ _All right, fine_!” Toni snapped. “I _get_ it.” She dropped back down on the bed and glared at the can of rocksalt in Sam’s hand. “What’s that for?”

            “Ghosts can’t cross salt lines.” Dean rose and stretched. “So, as long as you stay inside this room, the spirit can’t get to you.”

            “And that’s what you want me to do. To just _sit here_.”

            “No, I’m pretty much offering you a choice.” Dean shrugged into his jacket. “Either you sit here and behave yourself. Or I tie you to the bed until we get back.”

            “Kinky.” Toni spat.

            “Oh, baby, you ain’t seen nu-nu-nu-nothin’ yet.” Dean chuckled, flipping his collar out and turning toward the door.

            “I’m sorry for him.” Sam said lowly, grabbing the duffle bags, and he was surprised when Toni actually smiled.

            “He’s cute, in an annoying-five-year-old kind of way.”

            “If you say so.” Sam shook his hair from his eyes. “Look, just…sit tight.”

            “You really do want me to just sit here. Alone. Until you get back.” The fight had drained from her voice, leaving cold resignation.

            “Toni, listen. We don’t know what shape those kids will be in when we find them. We might need your help.”

            “Sam, you don’t have to patronize me.” Toni said gently. “I’m not a little kid. I mean, yeah, it pisses me off that you won’t let me help. It pisses me off _a lot_. But I know why you’re doing it. And you don’t have to worry. It’s like my mom says: ‘Idiots argue and don’t do it’—”

            “‘Stupid people argue and do it anyway.’” Sam finished. “My dad used to say that all the time.”

            “Well, I’m an idiot.” Toni picked up remote from the pillow. “I’ll be a good little civilian. I’ll watch game show repeats and weep into my cornflakes.”

            “Let us know how that goes.”

            “I’ll keep a journal for you.”

            Sam grinned and gave her a two-fingered sideways salute, letting himself out.

            The night was balmy, the way Sam remembered from the hunt he’d done with his dad in Florida when he was fifteen. Dean had left for a solitary road-trip and left Sam and John to rip each other’s throats out—or so Sam had thought.

            They’d never told Dean the stuff they’d really done: finished off the hunt a few days earlier than what was on their schedule, and John had taken Sam to Universal Studios, of all places. Sam had learned a few interesting things that weekend: that John Winchester was obsessed with Dippin’ Dots; that Sam could’ve survived off of Irish ice-cream and oatmeal cream pies for the rest of his life, if he’d had a metabolism like Dean’s; that the same man who would face a charging spirit with a bleeding arm and a shotgun in one hand, was terrified of roller coasters; and that John worried about Dean so fiercely it scared Sam.

            They’d laid in the bed of John’s truck and watched the fireworks shoot off over Magic Kingdom the night before they’d left to meet up with Dean, and all Sam had been able to say was, “Thanks.”

            John had reached over and ruffled Sam’s hair. “You’re welcome, son.”

            “Sam!” Dean waved a hand in front of Sam’s face, dragging him out of the memory. “You gonna zone out all day?”

            Sam scrubbed his face on his arm. “Sorry.” He slung his duffle open and started unpacking his clothes.

            “Relax, I got it.” Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm to stop him and held up his own duffle: empty of creature comforts and filling up with weapons.

            Sam nodded, tugged the zipper shut and threw the bag under the front seat, helping Dean load up the shotguns with rocksalt rounds.

            “Hey, Dean.” Sam cocked one of the sawed-offs open and checked the chamber for rounds, then snapped it shut one-handed.

            “Yeah?”

            Sam put his back to the boot of the car and leaned his hands on the rim, watching the door of the motel room; light flickered against the curtains, reflecting from the television. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? Keeping her this close to the case?”

            “I got no clue.” Dean hunched his shoulders to his ears. “But the way I see it, if it keeps her in that room? Keeps her safe? It’ll work, for now.”

            “Yeah.” Sam frowned, threw the shotgun into the bag and slammed the trunk shut while Dean slid the weapons into the backseat and then got in behind the wheel.

            “You know this spirit—or spirits—they’re gonna throw us around like…” Sam opened his mouth, then shut it, and dropped his hand on his jeans, rubbing his knee. “I mean, the things we do, Dean? Impersonating federal officers? We’re up to our elbows in _credit card fraud_? We’re practically the poster boys for subverting the law.”

            “Yeah? Your point?”

            “Aren’t you a little—?” He met Dean’s eyes in the lights off the dashboard and earned himself a classic, Finish-That-Sentence-I-Dare-You look. “Nevermind.”

            They pulled out onto the road with a low strip of sunset under the clouds to their left. Dean tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, brows pulling low. Thoughtful.

            Sam waited.

            “Y’know, what I don’t get is _why_.”

            “Why?”

            “Yeah, why is Perry’s ghost ganking people _now_? It’s like you said, people have _sensed the presence of spirits_ , or whatever, for years.”

            “Yeah, but the worst it ever did was trip people. And, well, scare the crap out of them.” Sam said dryly.

            “Exactly. So why the Rambo movement, huh?”

            “Maybe it’s an anniversary of something?”

            “Well, not his death.”

            “Not the prison riot, either.” Sam frowned. “Huh…”

            “It’s weird, right?”

            “Something’s not adding up here.” Sam shifted, his knees pressing against the low dashboard, and winced.

            “I’ve got a _bad_ feeling about this.” Dean used his best Han Solo impersonation, but it didn’t do much to lighten the mood. All Sam could manage was a short smile before he twisted his head toward the window, staring across the inlet of the ocean as they crossed the Bridge of Lions. There was a local fair running its lights close to shore, the spinning Ferris Wheel reflecting a galaxy of convivial lights on the black water.

            Sam’s mind went back to his fight with Dean. To a need to prove himself that didn’t come from guilt, but from purpose.

            He leaned his head against the window and tried to remember what it was like to not have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

 

 

            The Old Jail was quiet when they reached it, but, of course, not deserted; two police cruisers parked out front and the officers leaning against the hood. Eating donuts.

            “What a cliché.” Dean muttered as he cruised past at normal speed. “Use our aliases, or drive around the block, park her and do this incognito?”

            Sam pulled the duffle over the backseat, opened it across his knees and pulled out the shotgun on top. “What do you think?”

            Dean grinned. “That’s my boy.”

            They left the Impala halfway down the next street over, and circled around back of the Old Jail. A rickety staircase led up to a door above their heads; Sam nudged Dean.

            “We could just go in.” He stage-whispered.

            “What, and risk those two chuckleheads walking in on us? Try explaining _that_ one.” Dean hitched the duffle off his shoulder. “If you’re too much of a girl to do it, Sam, just sit tight.”

            “I didn’t say I was—Dean, wait!”

            Dean was already creeping around the edge of the building. Sam set the shotgun on the ground and treaded softly after him. Where Dean went straight for the cops cars, Sam circled around to flank them, staying in the shadows thrown by the trees.

            Dean lost the element of surprise the minute one of the cops swept a flashlight across the front of the building. Dean froze like a deer in the headlights.

            The cop’s shout of, “ _Hey_!” jolted Sam into action.

            He jumped the first guy from behind, twisting him into a headlock and wrestling him to the pavement in a tangled sprawl. He heard Dean take the second cop down hard against the car, and then Sam’s world filled with pain as the officer elbowed him straight in the eyesocket. The intense pressure bolting into his brain almost made Sam gag. He lost his hold and rolled over, cupping his streaming eye, and a kick to the ribs knocked the wind out of him.

            That was as far as the cop got before Dean, a screaming windstorm of protective, leather and gunmetal, _Don’t-screw-with-my-brother!_ landed on him, pounding the guy’s face into the asphalt. He was out like a light and Dean pulled Sam to his feet, holding him gently back against the car.

            “Lemee see—Sam! Let me see your eye!” Dean’s grip was surprisingly gentle, his thumbs on Sam’s cheeks, coaxing instead of forcing. Sam relented, dropping his hand and squinting his eye when the neighborhood lights sizzled into his pupil. The whole thing was still a waterfall of pain and felt like it was bleeding; Dean pulled at the skin above and below Sam’s eyesocket with his thumb and forefinger, holding Sam’s head steady with his free hand.

            “Aw, it’s nothing. You wuss.” Dean clapped him on the side of the neck. “Gonna leave a mark, though.”

            “Thanks.” Sam blinked rapidly to clear his vision, then shook his head so hard his hair smacked his cheeks. “Agh, hurts like a _bitch_.”

            “Want me to kiss it, make it all better?” Dean flashed a taunting, megawatt smile, hooked his hands under the cop’s armpits and started dragging him backwards toward the sidewalk. “Here, let’s get Starsky and Hutch off the street.”

            They leaned the two cops against the seats inside the cruiser and handcuffed them both to the steering wheel. Sam grabbed the duffle from where Dean had dropped it by the tree, keeping to the shadows again to avoid being seen; after their brief but obvious scuffle in the street, Sam felt like there were eyes drilling into him from all sides.

By the time he caught back up with Dean, at the front door and picking the lock, Sam’s eye was stinging but at least he could almost see again through the haze of tears. He watched the street for passersby until he heard Dean’s hushed, triumphant, “ _Gotcha_ ,” and the door creaked open.

            “Go, go.” Sam booted Dean inside, ignoring his complaints, and backed in after him with the duffle already halfway off his shoulder.

            They armed up, shotguns and a can of rocksalt a piece, just in case. Flashlights; Sam tossed one to Dean and clicked on his own.

            “Split up,” Dean said. “One of us takes upstairs, one of us checks out the cells?”

            Sam swallowed; he wasn’t all that keen on dissecting a whole level of this place by himself, when they didn’t have anything more than a vague idea of what they were dealing with. But Dean was using logic; they’d cover more ground, faster, if they split up. And the faster they moved, the sooner they could find the three kids, alive or dead.

            Sam was praying for _alive_.

            “You take the murder scene.” Dean said it with a martyred expression, like he was doing Sam a favor.

            “No. We settle this the old-fashioned way.” Sam held up his hand in a fist.

            “Dude, no.”

            “Dude. _Yes_.”

            Dean groaned, but he held up his fist, too. “When I kick your ass, I’m taking _upstairs_.”

            And he threw scissors. And lost.

            “Always with the scissors, Dean. Never fails.”

            “Yeah, yeah, smartass. Someday you’re gonna play paper.”

            “Yeah. The day you play rock.”

            “Fine, but I’m taking the EMF.” Dean snatched it out of the duffle before Sam could make a move.

            In spite of Sam’s victory, the upstairs of the place felt just as unsettling as the first floor; Sherriff Perry’s office had remained intact after his death, giving it the spooky sensation of its previous occupant just being out to lunch, and not six feet under. Sam pulled open the doors of every closet and cabinet, not really sure what he was looking for; and not finding anything that hinted at being genetic material. The place seemed swept-clean, almost too cheerful and empty for a former prison with a grisly history.

            Sam ran his hand across the lace doily on the table and wrinkled his nose. 

            There wasn’t much to see, so after making a thorough corner-to-corner sweep, Sam met up with Dean at the foot of the stairs.

            “Find anything?”

            “No. You?” Dean asked.

            “Well, Perry liked to live in comfort while the inmates suffered. Otherwise,” Sam’s gaze tugged almost unwillingly toward the cells where the four students had died.

            Dean checked his watch. “Well, it’s been ten minutes. If there are any spiritual silent alarms, we’ve probably tripped ’em by now.” He rolled his sleeve up for a second, eyes tracing along the inside of his arm. “ _Kimberly! Ricardo! Taeisha!_ ”

            Sam almost jumped out of his skin. “Dammit, Dean!”

            “Taeisha’s a weird name,” Dean commented, ignoring the glare Sam was pinning him with. “All right, so either the lids can’t hear us—”

            He broke off, the roof creaking and bringing both of their heads swinging up. Dean cocked the shotgun and aimed it, but Sam shoved the muzzle down.

            “Could be a person.” He intoned.

            “The kids?” Dean cocked his head.   

            Sam shrugged, his eyes circling the roof; the creaking had stopped, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t _someone_ up there, huddled up, listening in on them.

            “Sam!” Dean hissed, and Sam turned his head, not picking up on what Dean was pointing at until he’d tracked it with his uninjured eye.

            Dean was pointing toward a loose floorboard in the corner, his bright eyes reflecting slanting streetlight from outside. “Perry might’ve stashed ’em in the walls.”

            Sam glanced out the window, turned toward his brother—froze.

            “No.” Sam murmured, his eyes glued to the sight outside the window. “I don’t think so.”

            Dean flanked him, his face close to the glass.

            The archaic gallows were off the side of the building, an old flat-and-pole design that dated back to medieval times. There had been at least one picture of the gallows on every site Sam had visited to research the Old Jail.

            He was pretty sure none of them had featured three bodies tied around the center pole, backs-in, bloody and unconscious.

            “Dean.” The word stuck in Sam’s throat.

            “Since when do ghosts put bodies up on display?” Dean growled. “Let’s go, Sammy.”

            He didn’t wait for an answer before he circled the downstairs and kicked open the back door, taking it down two steps at a time and hitting the ground running. Sam overtook him in three long strides, tossing the duffle and shotgun to one side and clomping up the stairs onto the gallows. He crouched beside the nearest girl, moving her auburn hair off her neck so he could feel for a pulse.

            “She’s alive. Barely.” Sam reported when Dean reached him. He pulled the demon-killing knife from the top of his boot and sawed the ropes off, catching the girl when she listed forward. “Easy, easy, I gotcha.”

            “Sam.” Dean held out his hand and Sam tossed him the knife. Dean cut the boy loose, stirring him awake. Dean sat him back with a disarming smile. “Hey. I’m guessing you’re not Taeisha.”

            Sam’s breathless laughter cut off with a sucking force slamming into his chest; he launched off the gallows and hit the ground smack on his tailbone, stabbing pain up through his spine. Blinking to clear the reddish tinge from his eyes, he saw a brief flash of something above him: a face flickering in and out of focus, fitting the description Toni had given them.

            _Not Perry_.

            Sam sat up, propping his weight backwards on his hands and blinking, hard. He heard Dean calling him, but before he could respond his entire line of sight was full of a tawny trenchcoat streaming on the wind.

            Sam finally found his breath, and his voice: “Castiel—?”

            “ _Leave. Now_.”

            Sam wasn’t sure if the angel was talking to him, or to the spirit.

            “ _Sam_!” Castiel’s head bent to the side. “Get your brother, and _go_.”

            Sam didn’t argue; scrambled to his feet and pushed past Castiel, back to the gallows. He scooped up the girl and nodded Dean to go ahead of him, lugging Ricardo in a fireman’s carry; Sam was already mapping it out in head, planning the best way to circle back around and grab the other girl, still tied unconscious to the pole.

            “Sam, get your ass moving!” Dean howled; Sam swung the girl away from the gallows right before the edge exploded, a sizzling ball of angelic power munching through the wood.

            They ran and didn’t look back, crossing the street with the sounds of a fight still cutting across the humid air behind them. Dean dumped Ricardo into the passenger seat and took the girl from Sam’s arms.

            “What the hell was that?” He demanded.

            “I don’t know.” Sam whirled back to face the Old Jail. “I’m going back.”

            “Sam, be careful!” Dean’s shout chased him down the street and back onto the grounds of the historic site.

            And by the time Sam had made it back to the Old Jail, the battle-sounds had cut off like they’d been swallowed in a vacuum. Sam skidded to a halt, wet grass and hidden pebbles spraying from under his boots.

            There was a half-bent tree leaning over the gallows, its branches caging the girl inside a webwork of gray and green. There no sign of that man—or, ghost—just a still, quiet night, like he’d never been there, never shoved Sam at all.

            The grounds, empty.

            Apart from Castiel, facedown and unmoving in the dirt.

          

 


	7. Chapter 7

_May 22 nd, 2012_

_The Old Jail, St. Augustine, Florida_

The Impala slid around the corner and almost broadsided a brick wall.

            It wasn’t like this was Dean’s first rodeo on the rain; but with three kids bleeding to death in the backseat, Sam practically living under his elbow like a tumor and Castiel mashed against the shotgun door totally out of it, Dean was having a pretty hard time focusing on the road.

            He’d ask himself later what the _hell_ had even happened back at the Old Jail.

            “Any luck?” Dean felt like his whole voice was filling up the car, way too loud over the pounding rain; the storms had moved in, fast, and with the wind blowing in off the ocean he was battling just to keep baby on the straight and narrow.

            “He’s still out cold.” Sam was half-twisted around in the seat, fingers knotted up in the collar of Castiel’s trenchcoat. “I don’t think he’s hurt, he’s just—knocked out.”

            “What kinda spirit can knock out an _angel_?”

            “You tell me!”

            Dean wanted to punch the steering wheel and swear himself hoarse; the whole case had a taken a turn for the _majorly_ weird, and Dean was fresh outta the patience he needed to handle it like a balanced human being. But right now he had six people in a car, four of them were hurt and he couldn’t let his hold slip or they’d all be screwed.

            “How much farther to the hospital?” Sam’s voice was wound tight with worry. Dean figured, having this many hurt people in a car, Sam’s empathetic side was probably about to go ballistic.

            “’Bout five minutes, if that guy at the convenience store gave us the right directions.”

            Sam glanced at the backseat, where the freshmen were all kind of bouncing against each other every time the tires hit a rut. “You should’ve let him call and ambulance, Dean.”

            “No way, those things won’t go over eighty in a storm like this.” At this point, the Impala’s speedometer was spiking at ninety-three and hydroplaning was looking like a serious possibility.

            “Well, what are we gonna do with Cass? We can’t take him into a hospital, he’ll flip out when he wakes up.”

            Dean didn’t argue with that one; besides, it wasn’t like there was much Nurse Chapel could do for an angel who’d gotten bullet-trained by a vengeful spirit. If that’s what they’d been dealing with in the first place. All signs were pointing to the negative, at this point.

            “It wasn’t Perry.” Sam’s voice almost got swallowed by the rain lashing on the windshield.

            “ _What_?” It came out sharper than Dean had meant it to.

            “The ghost—or, whatever it was—that pushed me. It wasn’t Perry.”

            “Yeah, I know, I saw it. It looked like the guy Toni told us about.”

            “Maybe it’s a spirit impersonating Perry?” Sam hunched one shoulder in a shrug. “Could be an inmate.”

            “With tattoos like that? No way, those were Sons of Anarchy rip-offs. Definitely twenty-first century.”

            “Dean—I don’t _get_ it!”

            “Me neither, Sam. So let’s just shut up about it, and focus on getting these _kids_ to the hospital before they bleed out!” Dean checked them in the rearview mirror; they looked like a mess. Like dogs had been chewing on them; maybe not ghost dogs. He sure hoped it wasn’t Hellhounds, ’cause that was a bigger fight than what they were geared up for, at this point.

            Castiel jackknifed up in the seat so fast Dean about had a heart attack, whirling the wheel left and almost spinning a donut on the water-slick street. He cursed at the top of his lungs and course-corrected while Sam tried to calm Castiel down.

            “Cass—Cass, hey! You’re with us!” Sam pressed one hand on Castiel’s chest, forcing him back down against the seat. “It’s okay. You’re okay! The fight’s over.”

            Castiel’s eyes were flying all over the place, jack-rabbiting from Sam to Dean and back again. “Where are we?”

            “On the way to the hospital. We’re two shakes out.” Dean couldn’t afford to take his attention off the road, at this point, but he could feel Castiel staring at him. “What? Somethin’ on my face?”

            Next thing he knew, it was like a storm cloud sucked through the window and drenched them. “I told you to _stay_.”

            “Cass—” Sam began.

            Castiel interrupted him almost savagely. “Is it really so difficult for you to obey one simple direction? I told you not to set foot outside of that motel room in Iowa. And you did. And _look what happened_.”

            He was almost chest-to-chest with Sam, cramming him _and_ Dean against the driver’s side door. Sam held up both hands. “Cass, just let me explain—!”

            “I expect this sort of recklessness from your brother. It’s built into him. But you, Sam, I thought you knew better.”

            “Gee, thanks!” Dean snapped, shouldering Sam back toward Castiel.

            “You betrayed my trust.” Well, he wasn’t gonna just drop it, apparently.

            “We had a case! What’d you want us to do, just sit with our thumbs up our asses while these kids dropped dead?”

            “ _You’re the reason they were injured in the first place_.” Castiel bit the words off, like they were knives getting stuck in his throat on the way out.

            Dean felt Sam tense against his arm. “Come again?”

            “You’re suffering under the delusion that Bobby Singer called you with a case at the Old Jail in Saint Augustine.” Castiel wedged himself closer to the door. “ _Bobby never called you_.”

            Dean felt that like a blow upside the head. _Oh, crap_. “Well, thanks for the dramatic reveal, Lucas. So who was on the phone?”

            “An angel. It was his design to move against these humans, fabricating a case he knew you would take interest in. He did it, all of it, to lure you here, out from under my protection, where you would be vulnerable. So that he could _kill_ you.” Castiel jerked his head around to stare out the window. “He very nearly succeeded.”

            “So…that guy we saw?” Sam sounded a little shell-shocked.

            “Yes. That was the angel.”

            “Well, angel or no angel, we’ve got four dead kids and three more on the way out.” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “So I really don’t care if it was a ghost, one of your dick brothers or the Mothman. We need to get them to the _hospital_.”

            “Did the angel touch you?” Castiel demanded, and Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “Dean. Sam. _Did the angel touch_ —?”

            “No, okay, we weren’t touched by any friggin’ angels!” Dean snapped.

            “Good.” Castiel leaned his head back against the headrest.

            “Why? What’s so dangerous about _this_ angel, Cass?” Sam asked.

            “His touch is deadly. With one blow he can spread a toxin through the human body that will cause paralysis within an hour; uncontrollable vomiting and internal hemorrhaging would soon follow. And, if not treated properly—”

            “Let me guess, you end up munching dirt.”

            “In a manner of speaking. Yes.”

            “So who is this guy?” City lights cut across Sam’s face and made him look a lot younger than he really was.

“An ancient angel. One who goes by the name of Zazerin.” Castiel replied. “He is something of a chemist of Heaven, and was one of Raphael’s closest friends.”

            Dean frowned, the windshield wipers flickering in and out of his line of sight, battling the rain. “Why would _Heaven_ need a chemist?”

            “I’m sorry. That was too literal of an explanation. He orchestrates pestilence. The plagues of Egypt, for example; before my Father unleashed them, due to the pharaoh’s hardened heart, Zazerin was assigned to assemble them. But ever since our Father became absent, Raphael had Zazerin experimenting with unnatural elements. When I became aware, I confronted Raphael, who had Michael’s confidence, at the time.”

            Sam blinked, sat up straighter. “What happened?”

            Castiel eyed him sideways. “How do you think I came to be stationed away from home for two thousand years?”

            Sam tilted his head slowly from side to side. “That makes sense.” He turned to face Castiel on the seat, keeping one eye on the kids. “So, if it’s angelic poison, why can’t you flush it out of someone’s system?”

            “Because Zazerin is clever. This venom is orchestrated to run its course unhindered, if it’s not treated with an antidote. An antidote which will, no doubt, be very specific.” Castiel propped his elbow on the windowsill and rested his forehead on his fist. “And if I know Zazerin, he will be the only one who carries it.”

            Murky water sprayed out from under the tires as the Impala took the last corner into the hospital parking lot. Dean pulled right up to the emergency exit, piled out and had Ricardo’s arm over his shoulders before Sam and Castiel had scrambled out to help.

            They barely made it inside the hospital’s front door before they got swamped by nurses and a whole flood of questions Dean couldn’t keep up with.

            “I dunno—s’cuse me—hey, watch it, his head’s bleeding!”

            “We’re just Samaritans, we saw these people were in trouble.” Sam was a lot more in control of the situation and actually managed to get the point across, apparently, because one of the nurses—some older lady with gray hair and a look that could melt rubber—nodded, and then someone was yelling for stretchers.

            “Stay put, I’ll have questions.” The nurse took the girl out of Sam’s arms like she didn’t weight much more than a sack of flour.

            Next thing Dean knew, they were pretty much alone in this huge, antisepticky waiting room. Him and his gargantuan brother and an angel who still looked a couple apples short of a good pie.

            Awesome.

            “We should leave.” Castiel was swaying on his feet.

            “You heard Nurse Betty, nobody’s going anywhere. Sit down before you fall down.” Dean pushed him toward a chair. “Let’s just hang tight for a second.”

            “ _Dean_.” Castiel gave him this look that was a pretty passable attempt at Sam’s puppy-dog-eyes routine.

            Too bad Sam was the only one who could get away with it. “I said _no_ , Cass.”

            “We have to make sure those three are all right. Case or no case, they’re still the victims, here.” Sam backed Dean’s play like a champ.  
            “Yeah, I wanna know how— _Zazerin?_ —pulled off this whole shindig.” Dean added.

            “Cleverly. He must have researched the Old Jail’s history thoroughly and constructed his illusionary case around it.”

            Sam blew out a long, hopeless breath. “The way he killed those kids…it sounded so much like Perry.”

            “He got the jump on both of us, Sam.” Dean threw in—just in case they were about to start internalizing the blame. Again.

            “I know.” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “I want him dead.”

            Said it the same way most people would say, ‘ _I want a sandwich._ ’

            “That will be easier said than done.”

            “Yeah, well, I’ll let you two geniuses work that out. I need some caffeine.” Dean still felt the adrenaline blistering in the tips of his fingers. Made him want to punch a wall, which probably wouldn’t be such a great idea in a place like this.

            So he went on a hunt for some coffee.

            Nice thing about hospitals: hospital cafeterias. Smelled like Fruit Loops and grilled cheese and made him hungry. Too bad the place was closed; still, coffee-vending-machines: bingo.

            Except he got the cup in his hand and shoved it against the dispenser and then everything smacked him all at once: hospital-smells and coffee-smells, dragging him backwards, into a headache and hole in the pit of his stomach and—

            _Time of death: ten-forty-one a.m._

            Hot coffee sloshed Dean’s hand when he jerked it back. He braced both hands on the edges of the machine, leaning his head down low. All the stuff about finding John, flooding back up inside of him.

            “Son of a _bitch_!” He punched the coffee machine so hard it rocked.

            “That device didn’t do anything to you, Dean.”

            He squeezed his eyes shut with an irritated fake smile. “You couldn’t have found me in less of a mood for your bullshit, Cass.”

            “My apologies. I meant to lighten the mood.” Dean felt a touch on his shoulder, and the burn vanished off the back of his hand. Nifty. “What’s bothering you?”

            “What _isn’t_ bothering me?” Dean chucked the half-full coffee cup and loaded change into a Pepsi-vendor.

            “Very well, what’s troubling you at this exact moment?”

            Dean looked at him cock-eyed and unscrewed his Mountain-Dew. “Well, you’re getting warmer there.”

            Castiel looked like he was really thinking about it this time. “I haven’t even asked yet: Sam’s seizures. How are they?”

            Dean pointed the long neck of the bottle at him. “That’s a million-dollar question right there.” He flopped down in one of the empty booths in the empty, half-dark room, and Castiel sat across from him “He acts like it’s no big deal, but I think he’s unraveling. He’s freaked out because he can’t get his head on straight after these things anymore. It’s like the whole world doesn’t make sense to him after a seizure. Y’know?”

            “No, Dean I’m not sure I understand.”

            Dean draped one arm across the back of the booth. “Sometimes he sees the Soulless stuff. That usually puts him out for a while. Hell’s worse. He’s pretty clingy after he sees Hellhounds on his trail or gets his face ripped off by Lucifer.”

            Yeah, okay, he sucked at keeping the anger out of his voice.

            “He really believes he’s returned to the Cage?”

            “Yeah. Sometimes.”

            Castiel looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry Sam is bearing this burden.” He tilted his head back and stared at the huge blocky tiles on the ceiling. “And I’m sorry about your friend, too. The Shapeshifter. I wish there was some way I could help.” He laid his hands together, palm-to-palm. “But the duties of Heaven won’t allow me to leave. Not yet. There’s too much at stake, too much chaos to warrant a leave of absence.”

            And Castiel _could_ help them, no doubt about it; if he dropped everything, forgot about the war in Heaven, and helped them track Kaila and the Mohera, and slit their throats. But he wasn’t gonna do it, and Dean wasn’t gonna ask him to. He lived his whole life crossing lines, but this was one he wasn’t sure needed to be pushed, at this point.

            “So, you’ve really got your eye on the top job?” Dean teased halfheartedly, and Castiel pinned a blank stare on him. “Uh, an archangel position?”

            “Oh. Yes.” Castiel studied his hands. “That’s the plan. Yes.”

            Dean took a swig off the Mountain Dew, then thumped the bottle on the table “Look, I’ll be the first guy to admit, I’m not exactly up to date on Heaven Digest. Don’t really wanna be, either, y’know, that’syour business. But if you ask me, you really don’t sound like you’re sure about this.”

            “No, I am. Certain. This is what must be done.” Castiel trailed off.

            Dean leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “But…?”

            “But, it will be a very painful process.” Castiel admitted. “It’s far, far too complicated to explain, in human words. But it will leave me weakened for some time afterwards.”

Not that Castiel was exactly an easy guy to deal with, but friends were pretty hard for Dean Winchester to come by, these days, and he didn’t like the thought of any of the friends he _had_ getting their asses kicked from here to next Sunday. “Hey, you could always stay with Bobby for a while. He’d babysit you until your wings dried out.”

            Castiel actually smiled. “Yes, I may do that.” He rocked his head to one side, watching a couple nurses walk by. Dean sneaked a look; he’d seen better. “The thought of enduring this process, it…frightens me. To some extent.”

            “’Cause it’s gonna hurt like a sonuvabitch.”

            “Yes. That. And also because of the added responsibility that will come with the position.” Castiel said. “Even with Raphael’s stain washed out of Heaven, convincing my brothers and sisters to embrace their free will and fight for truth…it won’t be easy. Heaven is large, and there are countless angels in the ranks.”

            “Yeah. Well, for what it’s worth, if there’s any guy who can whip these guys into shape at Angel Boot-camp, it’s probably you.”

            “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence.”

            Dean shrugged.

They stayed quiet for a couple minutes before this thing that kept bugging Dean finally yawned its way out of his mouth. “You really think the Big Guy is coming back?”

            “Who—? Oh. My Father.” Castiel folded his hands on top of the booth table. “Yes. I do believe that. The signs are all there…and more than that. I’m not entirely certain he ever left.”

            “So, where was he during the _Apocalypse_? I mean, other than that time he dropped us on a plane, and both times he brought your sorry ass back to life, nobody heard jack-squat from him while the _world_ was ending.”

            “He was on Earth.” Castiel said it like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Among the humans. Helping where he could.”

            Well, it was a nice thought. “I have a hard time believing that one, Cass. I mean, look how that whole thing ended.”

            “With the world intact. And you and Sam were reunited.”

            “Yeah. After Sammy spent a year and a half in _Hell_.” Dean spread his arms in a wide shrug and lounged back against the seat. “Where was God during that, huh?”

            “Dean. You misunderstand. God is not a magician.” Castiel got that droopy-eyed look that meant he was about to fire off on a passion-wagon lecture. “He does not exist for the sole purpose of preventing our mistakes. You, and your brother, fought for the freedom to make your own choices. It was Sam’s choice to face Lucifer head-on, and to fall with both him, and Michael, into the Cage. You both endured the repercussions of that action. And yet, here you sit, relatively whole.”

            “What’s your point?”

            “My point, is that God will not clean up every mess that you leave behind. You will live and die by the choices you make, Dean. But when you ask for help, many times, you will find it.”

            “Not in my experience.”

            “How can you say that, when you have everything you need?”

            “Man, if you think I’m content, you don’t know me.” Dean finished off the Mountain Dew and lobbed it over Castiel’s shoulder, in the trashcan. “I just…have a hard time believing God’s just gonna walk back in. After _everything_ that’s happened.”

            “I know.” Castiel agreed. “But there is always hope.”          

            “So, that’s what Castiel hopes for.” Dean smirked.

            “There are many things I hope for.” Castiel said seriously. “Freedom, for the Heavenly Host. For God’s return. A future, for you and Sam. And independence for mankind.”

            “What about for _you_?” Dean scratched the back of his head and watched Castiel out of his peripheral vision.

            “I already have independence. To an extent.”

            “I get it. I mean, what do you want for _yourself_?”

            “To become an archangel.”

            “Yeah, but that’s to keep soldiers in line.”

            “Oh. You want to know what I desire, in order to please myself.” Castiel said dryly, and Dean’s mouth tipped in a face-shrug. “Do you know what the angels say will happen to us when we—perish? When our essence is destroyed?”

            “Uh. I don’t really spend a lotta my time thinking about that kinda stuff anymore, Cass. Timeshare upstairs or no timeshare.”

            “Anna and Uriel used to tell stories.” Castiel sounded really casual, like he wasn’t talking about the two old pals who’d stabbed him in the back and almost killed him. “They would say that our—spirits, as they are—would go to be with our Father, wherever he was. Gabriel all but confirmed it; he had been in the presence of God and claimed to have seen thousands of angels around him. Or so the stories go.”

            “And you believe that?”

            “You didn’t ask me what I believe, Dean, you asked me what I hoped for.”

            And he couldn’t argue with that.

            “All right, sharing time’s over.” Dean stood up and smacked Castiel’s arm with the back of his hand. “Let’s go find Sam.”

            At least he didn’t feel as pissed off anymore.

            They found Sam finishing up with a nurse, and since he didn’t have that pinched, worried look on his face anymore Dean figured it was good news.

            He spread his arms out slightly. “Well?”

            “The nurse says the kids should be okay. Most of the wounds were superficial. I guess they’re really dehydrated, but they should pull through.”

            “ _Finally,_ something goes right.” Dean said.

            “That’s excellent news. But we really should go, now. If Zazerin finds us here—”

            Dean nodded. “Don’t wanna turn this place into battlefield triage. C’mon.”

            At least the rain was slacking off a little bit by now, but it just made everything feel closer and more humid.

They climbed in the Impala, Castiel taking the backseat, and Dean looked at Sam. “So? What clever little lie did Sammy come up with this time?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “We were just driving by the Old Jail and saw them getting whaled on outside. So, we stepped in.” He shrugged. “I gave them Addison’s number, so they should be good to go.”

“All’s well that ends well.” Dean clicked the windshield wipers down on low and cruised back toward the Seabreeze.

            “This is far from over.” Castiel murmured. “I’ll have to reconstruct the protective sigils on your motel room, as I suspect it’s too late to make a run for Iowa now.”

            Dean slid a glance toward Sam and saw him staring out the window. “Okay, Cass, why don’t you just spirit us back out there?”

            “My—powers were weakened in my fight with Zazerin.” Castiel explained reluctantly. Dean met his eyes in the rearview mirror and Castiel looked pretty grumpy. “I ‘ _lost my mojo_ ’, for the time being.”

            “Oh, super. So we’re up against a whole group of big-bads and our angel’s down for the count?”

            “Dean, leave him alone.” Sam said quietly.

            Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, then palmed it, hard. “This sucks out loud.”

            “Yes. It does.” Castiel agreed. “They want to force me into a confrontation. As they have wanted for months. And now it seems I have no choice.”

            Sam’s throat rippled. “Good.”

            Dean and Castiel both stared at him.

“I beg your pardon?” Castiel said.

“I said, that’s _good_. Get your hands dirty. Fight back.” Sam sounded tired, but Dean could see his face and he knew Sam was damned sure about what he was saying. “This is it, Cass. This is all we’ve got. And it’s never going to get better, it’s never going to get _easier_. No matter how long we manage to outrun them, they’ll just keep coming back. They’ll keep _finding_ us. So we might as well stick around, and wait for them.” The planes of Sam’s face changed, hardened out. “I’m getting, _really_ , tired, of running away from a fight.”

“Well, hell yeah.” Dean grinned. “I can get behind that.”

Castiel sighed. “You’re both insane.”

Dean turned that smile on Sam, and Sam matched it. “We’ve heard that before.” He stretched, arching into the seat and loosening the stiffness from the back of his neck. “Well, I came here to kick ass and chew bubblegum. And I’m all outta bubblegum. Let’s get this show on the road.”

 

 

            Turned out, there _was_ something they could do to help, and Castiel laid is straight to them when they pulled up at the motel:

            “My strength is beginning to return. As soon as I’m able, I will take you both around the city.”

            “Is this really a good time for a double-date?” Dean cracked, shutting off the car and whirling the keys into his pocket.

            “It’s to lay down a scent.” Castiel ignored the joke. “Something to scramble Maolios’s senses, to put him off your real trail.” He looked shifty all of a sudden; always a bad sign. “Though I must warn you, it will be painful. For both of you.”

            “Painful, like…getting-put-through-a-meat-grinder painful?” Sam asked edgily.

            “No. It would be similar to having all of your limbs ripped out of joint by ropes.”

            “Oh. Sounds _delightful_.” Dean scowled.

            “D’you really think it’ll help?” Sam draped one arm over the back of the seat.

            “For a while, yes. Until we can think of a more concrete battle strategy.”

            “We’re in.” Sam said, and Dean didn’t bother arguing. “Just…give us a heads-up before you drag us across the state.”

            “I will.” Castiel nodded. “I will find you after I have rallied with the angels.”

            The backseat was empty.

            “See ya,” Dean said to the air, shoving his door open and climbing out. Sam slid across the front seat.

            “Hey, I’m going for food.” He stuck his hand out the window. “The usual?”

            Dean held up the keys but didn’t pass them over. “Extra onions.” He leaned his arm on the roof of the car. “You sure you wanna go out there alone with the firing squad looking for us?”

            “Dean, just give me the keys.”

            Dean dropped them and Sam jammed the car into reverse, peeling out in a cloud of burned rubber.

            “I hate it when he does that.”

            The inside of the motel room was dark; Dean kept it quiet, trying not to wake Toni up if she was passed out in one of the beds. He shucked off his jacket and kicked his boots into a corner.

            A weak, wet cough broke the silence.

            Dean looked at the bathroom door; it was shut and there was a light filtering out from the crack under the door. Dean flicked the lightswitch; the rest of the room was empty. No Toni.

Dean crossed the room in four steps, knocking on the bathroom door with the back of his hand.

            “Toni?” He felt a gnawing guilt; leaving a sick girl by herself in a motel room, not the best idea. Even if he hadn’t had any idea she was feeling under the weather. “Toni, you good?”

            The only answer he got was a violent, hacking cough that ended with a sound like someone purging their insides of all the food they’d ever eaten.

            Dean leaned his should against the door. “You need some help?”

            Nothing; not even an ‘uh-huh’.

            He jiggled the handle lightly. “Hey, mind if I come in?”

            He heard her suck in a breath that, even muffled by the door, was obviously feeble and irregular. Alarm shot ice into the ends of Dean’s nerves and he opened the door a few inches, waited for her to tell him to get bent. When she didn’t, he shoved the door wide open and stared down at her.

            Toni was leaning against the edge of the motel’s stand-up shower, her head rolling like a ragdoll’s. Ropy strands of red-tinged saliva hung from her chin; the entire contents of the toilet bowl swam with the same blood-and-mucous sludge.

            “Toni!” Dean crouched beside her, grabbing her chin. Her skin was so hot to the touch, Dean pulled his hand back. “Crap!” He thumbed her eyelids up; her pupils were enormously dilated, the blue of her irises eclipsed almost completely by an opaque disc of black.

            Dean’s training slammed back through him: what his dad had taught him, about heatstroke. Lowering the body temperature, before the person seized. Before the heat caused brain damage.

            Dean pulled Toni against him, chest-to-chest, and reached around her to pop open the shower door and crank on the water. He swung her up into his arms and scooted backwards into the stall until he could lean his head back against the powder-blue tiles, with Toni’s head propped against his shoulder.

            The water sprayed down on them, lukewarm so her body wouldn’t have a backfire reaction and start heating up to fight the cold. Dean’s soaked hair plastered to his forehead and he used his wrist to wipe the blood from Toni’s chin.

            “Cass!” He called, hoarsely. “Help us. _Cass_!”

            The bathroom door slammed open the rest of the way, splintering halfway off its hinges, and Castiel stepped over Dean’s sprawled legs, crouching beside him to run a hand down Toni’s hair.

            “Who is this girl?”

            “Toni. She was with the kids who got angel-napped.”

            A shudder racked Toni’s body, curling her closer to Dean.

            “Hold her still.” Castiel ran his hands expertly over her shoulders, neck, ribs, searching for something; Dean had no clue what he was looking for. Castiel took one of her hands, checked the pulse in her wrist. Rolled up her shirt to take a look at her stomach.

            And froze.

            The rug-burn stripe on Toni’s ribs had turned molten red in the center, puckered up like a lava-bomb and spewing a thick, tar-like black ooze.

            “What the hell is _that_?” Dean rasped. “What happened to her?”

            Castiel’s answer wasn’t much; just, _enough_ :

            “Zazerin.”  

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_May 23 rd, 2012_

_The Seabreeze Motel, St. Augustine, Florida_

Sam squeezed out the rag in the sink, watching the bedroom behind him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

            He’d returned with cheeseburgers just in time to see Castiel try, and fail, to heal Toni for the fourteenth time—according to Dean. A sleepless night trying to keep her fever down, bolting awake every couple hours to make sure she wasn’t dead, and Sam felt like he was at the end of his rope already.

            Dean had left for coffee, and Sam and Castiel were alone; the room felt too big for the two of them, with Toni on the bed, so pale her freckles looked black and the shadows under her eyes had turned to bruises.

Castiel had pulled up on the kitchenette chairs beside the bed two hours ago and was still there, hands folded under his chin, staring at Toni; the latest victim in his skirmish with Zazerin. Sam wasn’t sure how much guilt angels could feel, but he was sure Castiel was dealing with whatever equivalent they had.

Sam wasn’t sure Toni could pass for asleep; or if she was, it wasn’t peaceful. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths and even from a distance, with the all-consuming silence in the room, Sam could hear the small whimpers that eased out of her throat. Blood had dried in the corners of her mouth, and her skin had gone from healthy pink to pale to a muddy gray.

Sam averted his eyes from the bloodstains on the floor, tried to hold his breath over the salt-and-metal smell from all the vomiting Toni had been doing. Alone, while they were working the case.

Sam hated it, the kind of hate that left a slow-burning fire churning its way through his guts. He’d never exactly gotten along with Castiel’s brother, Gabriel—a hundred Tuesdays and six months of mental abuse tended to throw a wrench into any relationship—but he could relate to him right now: _I just want it to be over._

Castiel barely shifted when Sam came to stand behind him, holding out the rag. “How is she?”

The angel accepted the wet washcloth and laid it across Toni’s forehead. “Worse. It’s not in my power to bring down her fever or to heal the damage that’s been done inside her body.” He folded his hands under his chin again, his eyes riveted on Toni’s face. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Zazerin plaid his cards right.” Sam lowered himself onto the bed beside Castiel. “She was a time-bomb, and he pushed her right toward us.”

“Another…innocent human made to be a weapon against all of us.”

The bags of fast-food sat on the desk by the front door, untouched. The whole room smelled like onions and it made Sam’s stomach turn. He picked his jacket up off the foot of the bed, shrugging into it on his way toward the door.

            “Sam. Where are you going?”

            “Out for a minute. I’ll call if you if I get jumped by any angels.” Sam pulled the door shut soundlessly behind him and walked across the parking lot, toward a weeping willow tree on the grassy median beside the street. He had his phone out and speed-dialing by the time his back hit the trunk of the tree.

            It rang five times before picking up. “Sam?”

            “Dean, what’s taking you so long?”

            “Dunkin’ Donuts is jam-packed.” Sam could hear voices chattering on the other end of the phone. “Anything change?”        

“No. Cass still can’t heal her. I don’t think she’s got much time.”

Dean swore. “There’s gotta be something, Sam. We can’t just let an innocent girl sit there with her insides boiling!”

“I know. I know that.” Sam said. “That’s why I’m calling you. I wanted to let you know that…I think I have a plan.”

            A pause. “Okay? Shoot.”

            “Not like this. Not over the phone.” Sam glanced back toward the motel room. “Just...get back as soon as you can. And Dean? Make it fast.”

            Sam dropped the call and got to his feet; for a minute he leaned his head back, his hands in his pockets, and breathed in the smell of Illinois summer air, hot pavement cooking under the sun, and the willow branches moving around his head. He tried, unsuccessfully, to figure out what was driving the insane plan brewing under his skin.

            Not guilt. Probably. More like a need to help someone who he was in charge of, who he was supposed to protect; a girl who felt the same responsibility for the people around her as Sam always did. A girl with a future that was getting peeled away inch by inch while she was lying in a bed bleeding out of every orifice.

            The inside of the motel room felt stuffy in comparison when Sam slipped back inside. Castiel hadn’t moved from his post, but his eyes cut into Sam from across the room, sizzling with anger.

            “What did you tell your brother?”

            Sam hesitated, then shed his jacket. “Nothing.”

“Sam. Don’t insult me. I’m not a human and I do not have the patience for this right now.” His tone was final. “What. Is your plan?”

            Sam tore his hands back through his long hair. “You were right, Cass. We know why this is happening. It’s because the angels want _us_. Not Toni, not those people from the school. _Us_. And as long as we’re hiding, innocent people are going to die.”

            “So you’re suggesting—?”

            “Dean and I turn ourselves over. Trade us for the cure. You can save Toni and maybe we can buy you some time to figure out a better plan.”

            Castiel whirled onto his feet, a tidal wave of fatigued rage. “And what good, _exactly_ , do you think it would do for you to sacrifice yourselves?” He backed Sam into the corner, chest-to-chest and almost nose-to-nose. “I _need_ you both. If I am going to win this war. I need you and Dean by my side. Not locked in Zazerin’s cage while he decides the slowest, most painful way, _to end_ , the one who orchestrated Raphael’s end.” His eyes darted across Sam’s face. “And I certainly don’t want either of you dead.”

            He stepped back, avoiding Sam’s gaze and breathing almost as rapidly as Toni was. Sam shifted himself inelegantly away from the wall.

            “When I say we should turn ourselves over, Cass, I’m not saying we just give up. Aside from that whole…uh,” He gestured vaguely with one hand, “Michael’s Vessel thing a couple years ago,” and let his hand fall limply against his thigh. “When have Dean and I, _ever_ , just laid down and taken it? There’s always another plan. We just…haven’t figured it out yet.”

            “Regardless. I can’t let you take the chance. Not for my sake.”

            “What about Toni?” Sam demanded, and Castiel’s head wrenched aside with frustration. “Cass, you’re the one who said she was fading. Okay? She’s _dying_. And we can stop it. You have to let us try.”

            “And how would your sacrifice secure her safety? Hm? They angels are not bound to their word.”

            “Like I said, if you can trade us for the cure, that’s enough. If it’ll save her, if it’ll buy you, and…Ciel and Gaiaphage and Sabreael some time to track them down. I would do it in a _heartbeat_.”

            “I can’t let you do this, Sam.”

            “It’s not your choice!” Sam snapped, and Castiel froze him with a glare. “Look, just… _look at her_.” He pushed Castiel around to stare at the bed. “That girl is going to die if we don’t help her, Cass. I can’t let that happen.”

            “You’re asking me to sacrifice my _friends_.” Castiel said. “The only ones that I have left. To appease my enemies.”

            “To save Toni’s _life_!” Sam insisted. “Castiel. Please. Dean and I have trusted you, over, and _over_ again. I’m just asking you to trust me. Let us do this.”

            “Sam…”

            The motel door shuffled inward, scooting dirt across the carpet. Dean elbowed his way inside with two coffees and a box of donuts in his hand. “How is she?”

            “Still alive. For now.” Castiel’s voice trembled. “Both of you, step aside. Now.”

            Dean dumped the food on the table and backed out onto the concrete path leading from the parking lot to the motel room door, his arms spread wide. “So? What’s the deal?”

            “Your _brother_ ,” Castiel spat it like a swearword, and Sam cocked his head. “Has the insane notion that it would somehow be of benefit to us all if you were to turn yourselves over to Zazerin.”

            Dean dropped his arms. “Come again?”

            “Dean, it makes sense.” Sam said earnestly. “We’re the bigger threat. If we let the angels take us, they might give Cass the cure that can save Toni’s life.”

            “Dean, tell Sam this is utterly ridiculous.”

            Dean regarded Sam from under heavy brows for a minute, and Sam adjusted his weight with a small shrug.

            Dean sighed. “I figured that’s what he was thinking. All right. I’m in.”

            “ _Unbelievable_.” Castiel groaned.

            Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you serious?”

            “Do I look like I’m _joking_? You don’t play off of guesses when a girl’s dying in your motel room.” Dean squared up to Castiel. “You of all people should know that. We save _lives_ , Cass. Not just our own.”

            “Dean, they will _kill you_. Both of you.”

            “Doubt it. See, _they_ don’t stand to gain much if they just lop our heads off. They’ll want to push our buttons, see what makes us tick. Try to use Sam and me,” He pointed between the two of them, “To get to you.”

            “And you expect me to let that happen. You, of all people?”

            “Hell, no. You’ll come in smart; bring the rest of the Justice League. So Sammy and I get out, you get to be the big man in-charge, and these people walk away with an actual future that doesn’t involve getting _roasted alive_.”

            Castiel shook his head, but he didn’t protest.

            Sam let out his breath. “So? How do we get a meeting with the bastard?”

            “There’s a summoning ritual we can perform. Unfortunately, because of Zazerin’s…very specific qualities, it requires tainted blood.”

            “Tainted—?” Dean’s head cocked back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Impure blood to summon the one who breeds pestilence. It’s ancient Enochian. No unstained, healthy human could summon him. Only someone who was born of an alcoholic or narcotic mother; someone with a disease brought on their own folly; or someone who has tasted true evil.” His gaze settled on Sam.

Dean’s eyes darkened. “Uh-uh. Don’t start with that crap.”

            “Dean.” Sam cut him off. “It’s okay.” He rolled up his sleeve and flipped his wrist over toward Castiel. “It’s okay, Cass. Take it.”

            Castiel took hold of Sam’s forearm, and met his eyes. “It pains me to do this.”

            Sam inhaled through his nose. “Just get it over with.” He tacked on a weak smile to take the sting out of his sharp tone.

            Castiel’s angelic blade appeared in his hand and he sliced Sam’s forearm neatly, cupping his hand to catch the blood as it ran in rivulets down Sam’s arm. The next breath Sam managed to pull shivered its way through his nostrils and into his lungs, and he looked away from the wound until Castiel turned away, cradling the scarlet swirl in his hands, and walked back inside.

            “What a jackass.” Dean pulled a bandana out of his pocket and wrapped it around Sam’s forearm, squeezing gently.

            “S’okay.” The words ran together and Sam groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Ever since their run-in with ghouls three years ago, he’d been more sensitive to wounds on his arms than anywhere else on his body. “How’re you holding up?”

            “Super.” Dean fell silent, then added, his voice a little more honest: “How many more people are gonna get stuck in the crosshairs because of us, Sam? Huh?”

Sam wanted to clap Dean on the arm, tell him it was gonna be fine, that they were going to get through this the same way they did everything else. Toni, and the other injured students; the angels; the demons; somehow, Sam and Dean survived. Always, by turning back toward each other.

            It was the only thing Sam could be sure of, especially now, up against the Mohera and Kaila and everything else that didn’t make sense. Dean was a constant; just like when they were kids and John would be gone for days at a time, and there was no Mary to take care of them. Dean was the one with the Lucky Charms and Spaghetti-O’s, Dean was the one with the blanket and the books, Dean was the one Sam had turned to then and the one he could turn to, now, for something like staunching bloodflow, or to back his play.

            “Dude, quit looking at me like that.” Dean loosed Sam’s arm and headed for the motel door. “You coming, or what?”

            “Yeah.” Sam pinned his arm carefully to his side and followed Dean into the motel room, the knot in his chest easing a bit.

            Castiel was standing over Toni’s bed, his hand resting on her shoulder. There was a dripping rag replacing the one burned dry by her fever, and Sam thought he’d never seen Castiel look so compassionate.

            “We _will_ make this right.” He murmured. “All of your suffering will soon be over. You can rest.”

            Castiel backed away from her, slowly, and Sam caught a glimpse of an enormous silver chalice in his hands.

            Then the angel was standing, suddenly, between him and Dean. “You know that this is likely all part of Zazerin’s plan to draw us out into the open. He will be expecting us to react exactly like this.”

“I know.” Sam said stubbornly. “But we’re gonna do it anyway. ’Cause that’s just who we are.”

“I’m well aware.” Castiel tucked the chalice under his arm. “We don’t have much time.”  He grabbed their shoulders.

 

 

            “You sure this is the right spell?”

            Dean was pacing back and forth in front of Sam and Castiel, ripping his hands agitatedly through his hair. Low-bellied, bruise-purple clouds were swarming the horizon. The meeting ground was somewhere in The Middle of Nowhere, Grassy Dunes On an Island, Florida, far enough from civilization that no one would see the angels—or be injured if Zazerin decided to shoot first and ask questions later.

            Castiel had retrieved everything they needed to complete the ritual, and thrown it all together in the chalice inside an Enochian sigil he’d had Sam carve into the mud. They were crouched over it, with Dean still pacing, Castiel adding the last few annotations to the inscription that he hadn’t been able to easily explain to Sam.

            “It hasn’t failed in the past.” Castiel replied. He splayed his open palm a few inches above the wide mouth of the goblet and began to chant under his breath, a melodic, deep incantation that almost sounded like a song. With his wrist on his knee, Sam watched Dean slow to stop, facing them. For the first time since they’d told Castiel that they would do this, a waver of doubt entered Dean’s gaze.

            He had to know, just like Sam did, that there was no way this was ending in their favor, no matter how confidently they’d proposed it in the first place.

            Winchesters just weren’t that lucky.

            When Castiel finished the incantation, a burly moan of thunder shuddered through the clouds over their heads and Dean ducked, slightly, staring up at the opaque sky until it had trailed off into silence.

            “It is finished.” Castiel said, straightening, and Sam rose beside him, dusting his palms off on his knees.

            “Now what?”

            “Castiel and his primate friends.” The needling voice came from behind Dean. Sam precipitated his stance, bracing himself for what he knew was coming next.

            There were seven of them, outmatching the Winchesters and Castiel by a sore amount. Sam recognized the bearded man, the woman with the cross, and Maolios, the angel who had made it his personal mission to rid Sam of his bronchial functions; all of them familiar from the pack of angels flooding their motel room back in Leeds, before Castiel had spirited them away.

            The angel in front of the seven was the one who put Sam on edge. He’d taken on the vessel of a bodybuilder-type, shorn gray hair and tattoos. _Sons of Anarchy rip-offs_ , Dean had called them. The vessel alone looked like it could’ve snapped Dean in half without breaking a sweat. The power the angel within exuded was a hundred times worse.

            Sam had felt that when it had knocked him off the gallows.

            “Zazerin.” Castiel stepped forward to Dean’s side, and Sam moved with him, flanking his brother. With his arm brushing Dean’s, he could feel the tension in every muscle, like a snake getting ready to strike.

            Zazerin’s lips tipped in a wicked smile. “Castiel. You’re a difficult one to pin down. If you’re calling _me_ , you must have received my message.”

            “I did.” Castiel’s voice trembled with rage. “Are these the last who fell with Raphael?” His gaze swept over the six other angels, three on each side of Zazerin.

            “That they are. Since you’ve made a point of murdering the rest.” Zazerin wagged his head. “Your own brothers and sisters, Castiel. Killed for these puppets. It’s pathetic. Raphael deserved the position of power in Heaven so much more than you ever will.”

            “Your opinions are already clear on the subject.” Castiel said; Sam had to admire the composure in his voice. “I have something you want, and I’m willing to trade it.”

            “Trade it for _what_?” Zazerin bated him leisurely.

            “For the cure. To save Toni Pace’s life.”

            Zazerin rolled his head loosely and sighed. “You really are nothing more than a pet on a leash for these humans, Castiel. A sorry excuse for an angel.”

            “Wow, you must love hearing yourself talk.” Dean drawled. “But we’re all out of chit-chat time, pal. So why don’t you cut the crap, and we can get down to dealing?”

            Zazerin swung toward Dean, and readiness spun itself to the ends of Sam’s fingertips, seizing in his muscles.

            The angel snorted dismissively. “And what would a human know about the matters of Heaven?”

            “Well, I know your dad brought Cass back.” Dean held up two fingers. “ _Twice_. And, uh, how many times as he brought Raphael back? Oh, wait, uh… _zero_.” Dean pulled a brief, arrogant smirk. “So, the way I see it, we’ve got the Big Guy on our side. And if I were you, I’d start sayin’ my prayers.”

            “Show a little respect, boy.” Zazerin spat. “You’re speaking to—”

            “A piss-poor excuse for a loyal soldier.” Castiel interrupted. “A broken shell of a once-powerful angel, and a bully who has no better tactic than to attack guiltless children. Yes, I think we all know exactly what you are.” He twisted his head to one side. “Are you willing to trade with us?”

            Sam’s eyes darted from Castiel to Zazerin; the air was thick with intent, not just from the storm but from the opposing forces caught out in it.

            “It just so happens,” Zazerin reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a small vial of bright white liquid. “I have the cure with me. But you’d have to have something I _truly_ desired, if I were to make a trade with you.”

            “It’s your lucky day.” Dean said, and Sam’s stomach took a nosedive. _Here we go_. “Because it’s—”

            “Me.” Castiel stepped forward with his arms outflung, challengingly. “I will trade myself for the cure.”

            “ _Cass_?” Dean’s tone pitched the word into a question.

            “No!” Sam took a step forward and the bearded man flung up a hand, freezing Sam solid in his tracks.

            “What is your purpose in all of this?” Zazerin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You know we will kill you. We will end your campaign.”

            “I’m well aware of the cost of my decision.” Castiel lifted his head high. “And it remains, _my decision_. On the ground that these boys,” He motioned toward Sam and Dean, “As well as the people you’ve injured, and Bobby Singer, all walk away from this without contest from you, or your men.”

            “And if I refuse?”

            “Then this battle will continue until both Heaven and Earth fall away. Or,” Castiel’s tone dropped, his next words a tangible threat: “God will return. And as Dean said, we will see whose side he is really on.”

            Zazerin sniffed, looked away for a few seconds, and then met Castiel’s gaze. “All of this. For the humans?”

            “This is your only chance.”

            Disbelief pulsed through Sam’s veins. “No, Castiel, don’t—nn—guh!”

            The angel twisted his hand, choking Sam’s air off for a second.

            “Very well.” Zazerin’s voice hadn’t lost its suspicious tinge, but the reluctant agreement was there, too. “We have an accord.”

            “Cass, you lying bastard!” Dean snarled. “This was supposed to be _our_ fight! You double-crossed us!”

            “It is something I learned from two very well-versed teachers.” Castiel threw an almost flippant glance over his shoulder, his eyes sliding from Dean over to Sam. “They showed me how nothing is ever as it seems.”

            Sam blinked.

            Zazerin flashed closer, snagging Castiel by the throat and lifting him effortlessly into the air. “I have waited centuries for this. Ever since the first day you accused me in front of the garrison.”

            “Sam. Dean.” Castiel’s voice was strangled, but even. “I suggest you lay low. And as for you, Zazerin.” His hand clamped down on the angel’s wrist. “You can go directly to Hell.”

            A blast of sheer power threw the two angels apart, and the entire open plain erupted into a battlefield before Sam had a chance to blink.

            Somehow, he registered two things: that Ciel, Sabreael and Gaiaphage had appeared out of nowhere; and that they were about to crushed right smack in the middle of an angelic massacre.

            Castiel went straight for the closest angel, the cross-wearer, punching her so hard her head snapped back and she went reeling. Zazerin caught Castiel from behind, swinging him around and throwing him face-first into the chalice, splitting his cheek and lip open and showering blood on the grass. It all happened in a blur that was almost too quick for Sam’s eyes to track.

            And after a few frozen seconds, Dean moved into action.

            “Ciel, give me your sword!” He rushed her, leaving Sam standing alone, shoving off the angel that was on her back and dragging her to her feet.

            “Why?” She spat out what looked like a tooth.

            “ _Just do it_!”

            Ciel brandished it on him and Dean jabbed it over his shoulder, nailing The Bearded Wonder right in the eye. The vessel dropped like a sack of potatoes and Dean flung the blade sideways. “Sam, catch! On your six!”

            Sam’s brain oriented itself to the command and he whirled, stabbing—

            The blade, catching between two fingers.

            Lucifer smiled sweetly at him. “Howdy, Sam.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

_May 23 rd, 2012_

_Island off the Coast of Florida_

Dean watched his brother fall.

            For one of those heart-stopping, ground-breaking-under-your feet moments, he was pretty sure an angel had stabbed Sam. Ripped his heart out. And at the same time Dean stopped moving, staring at Sam, the entire battle felt like it ground to a dead stop around him.

            There was just him. And Sam.

            And the knife, falling with Sam, slicing open the front of this angel’s shirt but not doing any actual damage.

            It was his brother’s voice that kicked him into action again. “ _Dean, help_!”

            He jumped over a bloodstained vessel and piled into the angel, knocking her flat on the ground and rolling, swiping the blade from Sam’s outstretched hand and nailing the chick right between the eyes. A cacophonic blast shook the ground when her grace vanished, but Dean was already off of her and back to Sam.

            “Sam. Hey! You with me?” He shook his brother’s shoulder gently; Sam was splayed on his side, his limbs twitching feebly, his eyes staring.

            “Dean, he’s coming.”

            Dean looked around desperately and something flickered in his line of sight; he slapped Sam on the back and crawled past him, keeping his head down and picking up the vial that’d fallen on the grass. It wasn’t broken—thank God for small favors. Dean shoved it in his pocket and went back to Sam.

            His eyes were closed by this point and he was curling into himself. Dean recognized that expression on his face; seizure. A bad one. Right _smack_ in the freaking middle of an all out angel-on-angel gang war.

            “Not now, don’t you do this to me now,” Dean half-crouched over Sam’s head, protecting him from whatever kind of supernatural darts were flying around. “You don’t get to take a nap in the middle of a battlefield…Sam!”

            “Dean!” Castiel’s hand wrenched his shoulder. “Get him out of here!”

            “And go where? We’re five miles from _anywhere_ , Cass!”

            And the next thing Dean knew, he was still shielding Sam…in the bushes on the edge of the hospital parking lot. Same hospital where they’d taken those kids the night before.

            “That’s a real subtle hint.” Dean rolled his eyes, then leaned down and tapped his knuckles on Sam’s forehead. “Hey! Wakey-wakey, kiddo. The world needs you.” Sam stirred slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Sam! Hey! Open your eyes. That’s an order.”

            Sam barely shook his head.

            “How about this: you open your eyes or you’re going to the hospital and I’ll ditch your ass with the gray-haired nurses and the catheters.”

            Sam’s lids flipped up; his pupils were totally dilated, but when Dean shifted around he saw them shrink to pinpoints, and then relax out to normal size. Sam’s limbs did that tricky little dance they always did after a seizure, and then he reached up and fisted a hand in the front of Dean’s jacket.

            “Real?”

            It made Dean regret snapping at him, threatening to leave him. “Yup, I’m real, Sammy. You’re home.”

            Sam closed his eyes for a second, nodded, and then sat up, squashing himself awkwardly like he was trying to stay compressed. Still hiding from something, inside his head. “Where—where are we?”

            “Cass Nightcrawler-ed us to a hospital. Guess he figured you could use the help.”

            Sam peered at Dean through his eyelashes like the sun hurt his eyes, even with the shade from the bushes cutting it off. “Was he okay?”

            “Sam, you hit the deck in the middle of a fight and you’re worried about _Cass_? The dumb bastard can handle himself.”

            Sam stared down at his hands. “I saw Lucifer.”

            Dean shoved down the immediate bloodlust the name brought up. “Uh-huh. That happens pretty much every time you head out the back door.”

            “No. I mean, Dean, you threw me that knife, and I turned around and I _saw_. Lucifer. Like he was right there.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Crap.”

            “Tell me about it.” Sam rubbed his face with his hands. “Talk about vivid.”

            “You still think we need to just shove this under the rug?”

            “Dean, what other choice do we have? Especially _now_.” Sam shook his hair out of his eyes. “Did Cass get the antidote?”

            “Nope.” Dean saw the despair tug its way across Sam’s face, and held up his hand. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Sam.” He dug around inside his pocket and pulled out the glass vial. “Whaddya say we go save ourselves a civilian, huh?”

 

 

            They caught a bus back to Saint Augustine, with Sam asleep against the window for most of the fifteen-minute ride. Dean kept the glass bottle in his fist; didn’t want to let it out of his sight, out of his grasp, for even a second. Just like Sam; he kept one eye on his brother the whole ride, but Sam didn’t seem like he was having any Hell-dreams. He was just wiped out.

            Dean was getting sick of seeing him beat to hell every other day. Ginormo-Sam, Cat-in-the-Cradle-Sam, pre-Hell or post-Hell-Sam, it was all still Dean’s brother and strong or not, Dean hated being benched, watching him go through this.

            He shook Sam awake one stop before theirs, and then it was just a matter of hiking half a mile from there to the motel, following the map in Sam’s head. No sign of angels, which was either a good thing or a really freaking bad thing, and Dean wasn’t sure which one, at this point.

            Dean unlocked the door and let Sam in first; he still looked tired, his eyes sticking shut every time he blinked.

            “Sam, take a seat.” Dean pointed to the empty bed and Sam obediently folded himself down on the edge, his eyes on Toni. Didn’t look like much had changed since they’d left, except maybe she looked a little more corpselike.

Dean was halfway through uncorking the vial when he realized he had no _clue_ how to administer it. Dump it on Toni’s ribs? Pour it down her throat? He was pretty sure shooting it up wouldn’t work, but angels had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

            “What are you waiting for?” Sam asked. “Just give it her.”

            “I’m working on it!” Dean muttered.

            “We don’t have time for—”

            “Just give me a second!”

Sam hung his head lethargically.

            Dean’s brain kept swinging: ribs or throat. Ribs or throat. Crap. He sat on the edge of the bed and started untying the layer of flimsy bandages that covered the wound.

            Dean almost jumped out of his skin when a hand knocked his out of the way. “Give it to me. Now.”

            Didn’t wait for an answer; Castiel grabbed the vial out of Dean’s grip, pulled Toni up by her shoulders and tipped the vial down her throat.

            Dean palmed a hand down his face and let it rest over his mouth for a second; lucky Castiel had showed up in the nick of time. Still. Knowing he’d almost flushed their only chance at saving this girl, down the drain—kinda rattled him.

            When the vial was empty, Castiel tossed it into the corner and sank down on his knees beside the bed; he was scratched up and his vessel was still bleeding, meaning he hadn’t had a chance to heal from the damage. And he looked too distracted to take care of it anytime soon.

            “What now?” Dean asked.

            “Now we wait.” Castiel murmured.

            Oh, boy. His favorite part.

            “Dean.” Sam was swaying upright, his eyes sliding shut. Sounded like he was asking permission; to give in for a little bit, step off watch, hand the reins over to Dean so he could rally.

            “Get some sleep, man. You need it.” Dean switched over to Sam’s bed, to give Castiel some room. Sam shuffled around to get under the covers and buried his face in the blankets. Dean could tell Sam was trying not to be the kinda clingy he usually was after a seizure. Could see how much it was costing him to put on a show.

            “S’okay, Sammy.” Dean murmured.

            Sam’s foot bumped Dean’s leg.

            Castiel grunted, lowering more heavily onto the floor, his arms crossed on the edge of the bed.

            “Cass, you good?” Dean pitched his voice low.

            “I’m fine.” Castiel clasped his hands under his chin.

            “Uh-huh. What happened after you got us out of there?”

            “The skirmish was over fairly quickly. Without a direct connection to Heaven, Zazerin and the rest of the fallen have much less power than we do. We managed to kill a fair amount of them.”

            “How many is a _fair amount_?”

            “All of them. Only Zazerin managed to escape.”

            Dean blinked. “Oh. Well, that’s awesome. How’re you gonna find him now? Not like he’s gonna meet with you again, after you pulled that little stunt with double-crossing him on the deal.” He paused. “That was good, by the way.”

            “Thank you.” Castiel said. “No, I don’t believe finding Zazerin will be particularly hard. He only has two options now: to run, forever; or to face me.”

            “And get his ass kicked.” Dean smirked.

            “Something to that effect, yes.”

            “So, how are ya gonna track him?”

            “I won’t. I’ll summon him again, and offer him an ultimatum.”

            “An ulti—?” Dean broke off. “Cass, you can’t give this guy a clean break! He murdered four people and put three more in the hospital!”

            “I’m well aware of what he’s done, Dean.”

            “Then what the hell do you—?”

            He was cut off when Toni wrenched on the bed, hard enough to knock Castiel off balance. Her body curved, her back arching off the bed, and her mouth opened in a long rasp like her lungs couldn’t get full enough. Staring at her, Dean saw her veins pucker up and _wrinkle_ , fast, like something was moving through them.

            She dropped back onto the bed and didn’t move.

            “What just happened?” Dean lunged to his feet and Sam sat up, wiping an arm across his eyes.

            “Dean, what’s—?” He stopped dead, staring at Toni.

            Castiel pulled himself up onto the edge of the bed and pressed two fingers lightly right under Toni’s jaw. He stayed so still that Dean was pretty sure they were all holding their breath, waiting for—

            Castiel looked up, his eyes wet.

            He shook his head.

            Sam slumped down on one elbow with a groan and Dean’s whole world went black and white. Thinking that they’d done this, all of this, they’d faced the angels, for a cure that hadn’t freaking _worked_. It was too late, they hadn’t moved fast enough, and now this twenty-year-old girl was lying dead on Dean’s bed.

            His brain couldn’t, didn’t want, to catch up to that.

            Castiel’s hand tightened into a fist on the bedspread. “ _Zazerin_.”

            He disappeared.

            And Dean let go.

            Let himself snap, let a couple months of anger and pain and anger and _rage_ wash up and suck him down. He shoved the bedside lamp onto the floor, busting the bulb, flipped over the table, flung the chairs against the walls. Broke everything, everything that wasn’t too solid, wasn’t tied down. Like that could even change anything; like Toni wasn’t still dead—just like Rufus, and that chick Sadie that Sam had met in Palo Alto, Jesse, Jordie, racking up the body-count—like Sam’s head wasn’t still broken, John wasn’t still missing…

            Never fixing anything, just breaking it. Couldn’t save people, couldn’t stop Kaila, couldn’t stop the friggin’ _Mohera_. They were screwed up the river and it wasn’t ever gonna get better. And even if they somehow pulled off stopping that monster-machine and the bitch who was hunting him, it wouldn’t put back together what was already blown to pieces.

            Dean trashed the whole room, put his fist through the wall, and then just _stopped_. Felt like the wind had gotten kicked out of him.

            Sam was just staring at him.

            Dean sank down onto his knees and wedged the heels of his hands against his forehead, staring at the shaggy carpet underneath him. Felt like his brain was splitting into huge fragments, slicing into his skull.

            Hadn’t realized, until he watched Toni die, how close he was to losing it.

            Sam slid off the bed, onto the floor beside Dean. “It’s too much, huh?”

            “Yeah.” Dean’s voice sounded like he’d been chain-smoking.

            Sam’s huge hand rested on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing a circle on Dean’s shoulderblade. “What can I do?”

            Dean closed his eyes for a second, then dropped his hands. “Help me, Sammy. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

            And he’d do it. Whatever Sam told him to. If Sam told him they needed to ditch the job and run, right now, Dean would do it.

            “Dean, we can’t save Toni.” Sam said, gently. “But we don’t have to lose Castiel, too.” He stood up, holding out his hand. Dean grabbed Sam’s forearm and let his Sasquatch brother haul him to his feet. “We’ve got hunting to do.”

 

 

            The hem of Castiel’s trenchcoat was soaked in muddy water, and he’d lost the feeling in his legs hours ago.

            He understood the strategic defense in absence, and silence, but he found himself wishing he wasn’t so alone in this massive, gutted storage warehouse, conveniently placed just near a crossroads. It was infrequent of angelic activity, for the general sake of avoiding skirmishes with the demons who lorded over the crossroads, and so that made it both a perfect and imperfect place to meet.

            To his detriment, Castiel had been waiting for a very long time.

            He straightened, his shoes ruffling the oily water as he turned a half-circle, staring up into the rafters; half of the roof of this building was gone, not in one sweep but in patches, crumbling to the huge discs of bright daylight that swam across the higher support beams but fell to the floor in dim, shadowy scuffs.

            Up in the rafters, a pigeon crooned.

            “Zazerin, you bastard, I am right _here_.” Castiel rasped. “Come and find me.”

            He’d been calling in vain for a while now; and not only had Zazerin ignored his indirect summons, he’d managed to dodge a ritual as well. Castiel was wearing short of time and patience; and even Zazerin, an angel desolate and without soldiers or brothers to defend him, was a danger to all those Castiel considered his family.

            “Zazerin, you cannot hide forever.”

            “And how long can you continue to chase me, _little_ brother?”

            Castiel turned, facing the bowels of the warehouse as Zazerin emerged; the webwork of risen veins stood out starkly on his leathery hands, crammed into the pockets of his jeans. He looked haggard, as though he hadn’t healed fully from the battle. His limp attested to the same, and Castiel could relate; he could still feel his lip and cheek stinging where he’d gashed them on the chalice.

            “Forever,” Castiel answered, stepping clear of the puddle. “I have much more time than you do, Zazerin. And an infinitely greater number of resources at my disposal. All of Heaven stands poised to follow me against you.” He faced Zazerin with his stance loose, and his tone casual. “You, who are the last of Raphael’s followers.”

            “You stand there so self-righteous.” Zazerin sneered. “Have you forgotten what your arrogance bought us? How many messes had to be cleaned up because you pulled Sam Winchester’s soulless meatsuit from the pit?”

            Castiel repressed a very human, instinctual urge to wince; he knew, of course, the chain of events that had been set into motion by that single event: all of the suffering Sam had undergone, and Dean as well, and now the archangel’s blade was nowhere to be found. Gabriel’s last testament, his weapon, in hands powerful enough to hide it from Castiel’s sight.

            “And to think,” Zazerin went on. “If you hadn’t broken Raphael’s seraph sword, you would be able to pass it along to your human puppets. It’s unfortunate.”

            “You left me no choice in the matter.”

            “It was a simple battle, Castiel. You could have run, blade in hand, and those boys wouldn’t still be searching for the sword.”

            Yes, Castiel mused, he could have; and let Ciel be torn apart by demons. Castiel still remembered the feeling of a hundred talons piercing him, rending into both his meatsuit and the essence of his angelic form; he remembered seeing Raphael and Zazerin retreating, leaving him to die; and Raphael’s sword, shattered because Castiel had leaped to defend his sister and left it exposed.

            The Mohera, gulping the clean and powerful soul from within the blade, rendering it entirely useless.

            Much was a blur after that; he remembered willing himself to appear in the backseat of Dean’s car, in Essex, Maryland.

            And then, nothing.

            “It’s no longer of import.” Castiel said. “The past is the past. Zazerin. I am offering you one last chance.”

            “A chance.” Zazerin echoed with a derisive snort. “A chance for _what_ , Castiel? For peace?”

            “For redemption.” Castiel shifted forward, earnestly. “I will forgive it all, every sin you committed against our Father, against Heaven. I will vouch for you myself. If you will repent and pledge your loyalty, everything can be as it was before.”

            “I don’t think you remember how _miserable_ we all were before Zachariah launched his grand scheme to bring about the Apocalypse. And you want that same mundane life? We were designed to be _warriors_ , Castiel, not to sit on clouds and play harps, century after century.”

            “No,” Castiel growled. “We were designed to be ministering spirits, to aid the humans when they called upon us. But all you and Raphael did, all you have ever done, is breed destruction. You were a plague in Heaven.”

            “Is that so?” Zazerin tilted his head; his massive chest swelled and he spat outright in Castiel’s face. “I don’t want your pity or your _mercy_. You’re no better than our Father.”

            “I will take that,” Castiel cleaned his damp face on his arm. “As a compliment.”

            He felt the liquid slither as his own angelic blade slid into his palm. The muted glow filled the darkness of his sleeve, drawing Zazerin’s eyes.

            “One more thing, Zazerin.” Castiel squared up to him sideways. “Something I learned from my time with the humans.”

            Zazerin sneered. “What’s that?”  

            “When we want something very badly, we lie.”

            Castiel lunged, a sideswipe of the blade missing Zazerin’s chest by inches. They sprang apart, surging an adipose shower of water around their feet.

            “Even if you had taken my more-than-generous offer,” Castiel lifted the blade, holding it parallel to his forearm, “I would have never forgiven you. For the lives you have taken. For the things you have done.”

            “And once again, the self-righteous little brother thinks he has some say in the matter?” Zazerin spread his arms in a wide, challenging bow.

            Castiel took it for the invitation it undoubtedly was.

            They collided, clashing together in a storm of tainted droplets and the blood of their vessels, set running again by the fight. Castiel dodged Zazerin’s holds, noting as he did that the chemist seemed unarmed.

            And that, in and of itself, meant that Castiel should be alert; because even a battered Zazerin was not a fool, and would not have come to the warehouse to meet Castiel without some sort of weapon. And with someone whose specialty centered on cunning darts and boiling poisons, Castiel could not afford to underestimate the breadth of his design.

            So it became a dance; Castiel twisting and dodging every blow Zazerin aimed for him. And though that, in itself, was not entirely difficult, it presented a small problem in that Castiel couldn’t give any more damage than he received. He couldn’t afford to be any closer than the width of Zazerin’s broad arm, leaving him a window of only a few scarce inches to strike.

            The battle dissolved, quickly, into a frustrated match of wills; and Castiel wasn’t sure when the tide changed, but suddenly he came aware to the realization that he was the one at a disadvantage. He was defending himself from Zazerin’s blows more than he was breaking the other angel’s patterns.

            In a fight he had planned, grieving for the dead human girl and at the end of his wits, having exhausted almost every other method of defeating Zazerin in the months since Raphael had died—he was losing. He was failing.

            Realizing this, his mind reaching the conclusion in a split-second, Castiel kicked off of Zazerin’s chest, torpedoing himself halfway across the wide, gutted warehouse. He landed on one knee and skidded backward until his heel struck the wall; he wiped his mouth on his arm and then draped his wrist on his knee, watching Zazerin standing straight and tall.

            Castiel’s wet hair drizzled into his eyes.

            “Be careful, Castiel.” Zazerin taunted. “One touch from these monkey-paws and your vessel will be on the menu to slow-roast for a few agonizing hours. After that, well…I think you know what will happen to the humans you call ‘ _brothers_ ’.”

            Hot, righteous rage flooded Castiel’s veins; he flitted back to Zazerin’s side in the space of a thought, knotting a fist into the angel’s vest and hurtling them both back against one of the support beams. Zazerin struck with enough force to buckle the metal, bowing it seamlessly to the shape of his head, the curve of his spine.

            “Well, well.” Zazerin slumped over as Castiel’s arm pinned him to the steel beam. “Did I touch a tender spot? Little Castiel, the baby of the family. You know, Raphael told me: Father always loved you best. Ask me, it only proves what a fool he was.” Zazerin’s hand flashed up to the side of Castiel’s neck. “The back-row supporter of Heaven’s human pet.”

            Castiel was frozen; a single movement and he knew his vessel would be condemned.

            Zazerin’s chin nearly brushed his shoulder. “ _Father would be ashamed of you_.”

            “Guess again.”

            That voice: calm, cool, cocky. Castiel would know it in a sea of other voices, even if they were all speaking at once.

            “ _Castiel, get down_!”

            And Castiel did, if for nothing else, then by faith and trust, sweeping Zazerin’s hand away with one arm and falling to his knees. A jettison of auroral light tore over his head and seemed to wrap itself like a quilt around Zazerin, a million glimmering particles of ice and pale fire twisted together, pinning him still.

            Castiel rose gingerly, looking over his shoulder.

            Sam still had his back to the angels, his bloodstained hand lost in the shadows of the sigil he’d drawn; ancient Enochian, a binding spell Castiel had taught them during the Apocalypse, on the off-chance they ever found themselves anticipating a visit from Zachariah, with the possibility of actually preparing for him to appear rather than being caught off-guard by it.

            A lesson used, now, to save Castiel’s life

            “I don’t believe it,” He found his tone brimming with admiration.

            “Pretty good, right?” Dean replied excitedly, but there were dark circles coloring his cheekbones and his eyes had the red-rimmed shade of recently-shed tears. Sam looked no better; but they were here, and they had come to help him.

            Zazerin twisted his head frantically, the only part of his body not thoroughly trapped by the sigil. “No—you don’t understand—listen to me!” He was suddenly desperate, all of his bluster fallen away.

            Castiel began to circle the pole, slowly, judging Zazerin and his vessel.

            “What could you _possibly_ have to say that we’d wanna hear? Huh?” Dean asked flatly, his jovial mood vanishing. “We’ve got a dead girl in our motel room, thanks to you. So unless you can bring her back—”

            “I can do better.” Zazerin said quickly. “I can help Sam. I can help you find a way to ease the pain of his seizures.”

            All air, gone; the whole room, silent as a grave. Castiel halted, watching Dean’s green eyes widen, and Sam’s hand slide from the wall. Three pairs of eyes moved to Zazerin, all at once.

            “Sammy?” Dean made it a question, and a choice.

            And Castiel knew, though it battered against his resolve and his mission, that if Sam were to agree, then Castiel would relent. His campaign, and the purpose of it all; if Sam said the word, it would be done.

            Sam’s eyes seemed overbright, his face hopeful beyond words. “I’ve waited…a long time to hear somebody say that.” His gaze slid past Zazerin, to Castiel; and hardened. “I can wait for a better offer.” He turned his back. “Finish it, Castiel.”

            It was all the invitation Castiel needed.

            The angelic blade slid smoothly through Zazerin’s back and into his heart; one arm curled around the angel’s chest, and Castiel could feel the grace leaving him, his powers deserting his vessel.

            And he whispered the words for no one else to hear, but for Zazerin, in his dying moments:  “Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.”

            He released Zazerin, letting him crumple; and the moment the vessel struck the floor, a glorious flash engulfed the warehouse. When it faded, the charcoaled imprint of wings mingled with the dust, outstretched across the floor.

            Castiel was only dimly aware, at first, that Sam and Dean had come to join him, one on each side; didn’t come fully conscious of the fact until Sam gripped his shoulder. “Hey. Cass. You okay?”

            “Son of a bitch didn’t poison you, did he?” Dean demanded.

            The protective fury in his voice surprised Castiel; he looked up at them both. “You came for me.”

            “Of course we did, Cass.” Sam’s brow furrowed like he didn’t understand. As though it was a natural reaction for a human to step into a battle between angels, and to side against the clear winner.

            “That’s what family’s for.” Dean’s words, so simple.

            But Castiel knew how much family meant to these men.

            “You don’t understand,” He insisted. “Zazerin was the last of the rebellion who still walked free. With his death, I’m proven worthy.” The hope bounded and swelled in his chest until he thought it would choke him entirely. “I can become…an archangel.”

            “Well, c’mon.” Dean adjusted his weight from foot to foot, rubbing the side of his neck. “ _Technically_ , we won that fight for ya.”

            As if Castiel needed reminding; some of the good humor evaporated from the moment.

            “Dean,” Sam scolded his brother with just the one word. “Don’t worry, Cass, your secret’s safe with us.”

            And because Castiel didn’t know what else to do with these very human, very abundant joyous emotions, he did what he had seen others do on such occasions: he turned and embraced Sam.

            He felt the young hunter stiffen, and for a moment Castiel wondered if he’d broken a sacred law and unleashed awkwardness. So it came as another surprise when Sam returned the embrace, and it seemed genuine.

            “Yeah, you’re welcome.” He said quietly.

            Castiel pulled away with a nod, and turned to Dean, unsure, opening his arms slightly. And the greatest surprise of all came when Dean accepted the gesture, giving him a solid pounding on the back that made Castiel cough violently.

            “Guess we’ll see you on the flipside, Cass.” Dean’s tone was gruff, but warm. He stepped back, grabbed Castiel by his upper arms and gave him a little shake. “Our baby angel, all grown up and off to archangel camp.” He smirked over Castiel’s shoulder. “Hold me, Sammy.”

            “Cut it out, man.”

            “No, your brother is right, Sam. It’s time for me to depart.” Castiel could already hear the murmurs, the voices calling him home, clamoring for his attention. Ciel, loudly protesting that he’d left her behind; Gaiaphage and Sabreael, equal parts admiring and shocked that he’d been reckless enough to face Zazerin alone. And hundreds, thousands of others, all chanting his name with gaining intensity.

            They wanted him. They wanted this _for_ him.

            “All right. See you in a couple days.” Sam’s expression was strangely hopeful.

            “If all goes according to plan.”

            “Hey, Cass.” Dean was staring up at the ceiling, purposely avoiding direct eye-contact, so that Castiel knew whatever he was thinking was of the utmost importance. “Your, uh,” Dean cleared his throat. “Your dad must be pretty proud of you.”

            A true, and easy smile found its way to Castiel’s face. “Thank you. Both of you.”

            Dean gave him an offhand salute and headed for the warehouse door. With one last tentative smile, Sam fell in behind him.

            Castiel watched them go—these strange, brooding and unlikely humans; friends, and brothers to Castiel and to each other; a small family that loved him fiercely, a broken home he was thankful to have—and he felt the need to return to Heaven like he’d never felt it before.

            If only so he could be with them again, that much sooner.

 

 


	10. Epilogue

_May 27 th, 2012_

_Bar None Saloon, St. Augustine, Florida_

Dean whirled the shot glass in circles across the bar counter, then held up his hand “Hey, sweetheart, can I get another one?”

            Sam slapped his hand down. “Dean, you’ve had enough.”

            They’d been holed up in Biker Heaven for four hours, getting smashed and talking over the case. Just like the good old times; except they’d had to trade up for a different motel because a lotta questions tagged along when you had a college student with her insides slopped, lying on your bed.

            Dean shook his head, shook out the mental image he’d been drowning in booze since they’d walked in the door.

            Four days out from a wrapped-up case, and they couldn’t make up excuses to stick around much longer; there was still evil crap out there that needed hunting, the Mohera, Kaila; and sticking around Saint Augustine wasn’t doing them any favors, anyway. Dean was already looking for his next big distraction.

            At this point, he was pretty much okay being distracted by this smokin’ brunette in the corner.

            Sam finished off his third beer and stretched. “We should go. C’mon.”

            “Killjoy.” Dean threw a twenty on the counter and kicked his stool back, heading for the door with Sam behind him.

            They’d picked a motel within walking distance of the bar—or the other way around, Dean’s brain felt a little shot—either way, he was starting to regret leaving baby back at the motel. Rain was kicking up again; it was like Florida never dried out.

            “Man, I hate Florida.” Dean jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the rain. “This weather sucks.”

            Sam flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt. “It’s not all bad.”

            Dean checked his brother from the corners of his eyes; Sam had been ten kinds of quiet ever since Zazerin had offered him that deal. Not that Dean wasn’t proud of Sam for turning the guy down, but he’d watched Sam go through half a dozen seizures already since they’d iced the angel; and part of Dean was wondering if throwing the offer back in his face had been such a great idea.

            “So, why’d you tell Feathers to cram it?” Dean leaned his head back for a second, then shook the rain from his hair.

            “What?” Sam blinked. “Oh. You mean Zazerin’s offer?” He shrugged. “Honestly? There had to be strings attached. Right?”

            Didn’t sound like, _I’m-Right-And-You-Know-It_. More like Sam wanted Dean to tell him he hadn’t screwed the pooch on this one.

            “Always are.”

            Wasn’t much else they could say.

            They turned down a skinny alley, shortcut to the next street over, where their motel was; almost ran smack into the guy leaning over a trashcan and splurging his insides like someone was squeezing him.

            “Whoa!” Dean jumped back to avoid the spray. “Dude, watch it!”

            “Hey, are you okay?” Sam grabbed the guy’s shoulder and pulled him around—dropped his hand back down to his side just as fast. “ _Castiel_?”

            Castiel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Hello, Sam. Dean.”

            “Since when do angels throw up?” Dean asked; when Castiel faltered back and forth like he was about to nosedive in his own vomit, Dean grabbed his arm to steady him. “Better question; since when do angels throw up in back alleys behind bars?”  

            “Since they fell in with humans who frequent these immoral hovels.” Castiel’s pupils were different sizes. He blinked and shook his head.

            “You look like crap, Cass.” Dean said bluntly; not trying to make him feel bad, but. Seriously.

            “Thank you for your astute observation, Dean. It’s nice to know nothing changed during my absence.”

            “Were you in Heaven this whole time?” Sam asked. “Did it work?”

            Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. “I certainly hope so, or all of this grotesque misery I’ve been suffering through will have been for nothing.” He waved one hand and that little motion alone almost toppled him into Dean. “That’s not the point. I came to find you because I have information.”

            “Okay, about—?” Dean prompted him.

            “Kaila.”

            Dean’s stomach dove down into his ankles and the bloodlust came back up to fill in the hole it left behind. “Where is she?”

            “Dean.” Sam eased forward, peering into Castiel’s eyes. “You don’t look good, Cass. Do you need to sit down?”

            The angel actually looked—yeah, like total crap. Hollowed-out face, way more scruff than Dean was used to seeing on him. He felt lighter, too, with Dean holding him up; not like someone could lose a lotta weight in four days, but Castiel had pulled it off. How the hell did an angel lose weight, anyway?

            Not angel; _archangel_. Nice little upgrade; wasn’t showing the perks of the job yet, though. Transitional phases, sucked out loud. Especially when it made you look like a homeless-shelter reject.

            “I’m fine.” Castiel brushed Sam’s concern off, talking fast like he was trying to cram everything he needed to say into one sentence before he started harfing up again. “I found a trail on the hunter, Kaila, shortly after I was—turned.” His voice pinched tight, facing something he didn’t want to think about. “I was dangerously close; several times I thought she’d spotted me.”

            “Y’think she followed you back?” Sam swept the alley with a cautious look.

            “Oh, Sammy, she knows better than to come looking for me. _I’ll rip her throat out_!” Dean snarled the last bit, just for good measure.

            “I wish I could be more helpful in that endeavor.” Castiel murmured. “Unfortunately, I am still lacking the necessary…strength…” He hunched over and threw up dangerously close to Dean’s boots.

            Dean didn’t have it in him to be pissed when Castiel looked so miserable. He let the guy heave it out on the wet pavement, then spun him around by his shoulder and pushed him out at arm’s length to get a better look at him; Sam was right behind Dean, their breath turning the rain to fog.

            “You sure you’re good?” Dean demanded. “I mean, _really sure_?”

            Castiel met his eyes and smiled; looked like a pretty painful try for one, anyway. “I appreciate your concern, Dean, heartfelt as I know it is.” He ignored Dean scoffing. “I’m all right. I really am. I can feel the new power taking hold of my vessel; it will require more time than I had originally intended for my body to adjust.”

            “Does that have anything to do with you being out on the street, tracking rogue hunters the day after you get your new wings?” Sam teased lightly.

            “That might have something to do with it, yes. But it was worthwhile.”

            “What about John?” Dean demanded. “Did you see him?”

            “Yes.” Castiel nodded, and Dean felt the relief like a dump of adrenaline, making him dizzy. “I saw him, briefly. He’s alive.”

            “Do you know where they are?” Sam made a sloped, cutting motion with his hand, one of those things he did when he was talking about something that meant a lot to him. “Anything could help. I mean, _anything_.”

            Castiel nodded. “I can’t tell you where they are at this particular moment in time. But I can tell you what I overhead, in a brief conversation, about where they plan to make their final stand.”

            “Awesome.” Dean blew out a breath. “Lay it on us.”

            He wasn’t really sure which part came first; and he’d be wondering about it through days and sleepless nights afterwards.

            Once second, Castiel was facing them, hunched over but pretty much okay.

            And then he was bucking, twisting, his whole body arching backward, spine bending as a seraph sword stabbed straight through his windpipe.

            _Archangel_ _blade_.

            Dean felt his jaw pop open, come totally unhinged, the rest of him coming unglued, nice and slow and _painful._ For one second, seeing a flash of dark hair whipping, scaling the fence to their right.

            And then Castiel was sinking, with this weird choking noise in his throat.  

            It all went down in two, maybe three seconds, but Dean’s brain slowed it to a crawl, made it last forever before his limbs unlocked themselves.

            He splashed to his knees on the street, grabbing Castiel by the front of his suit and easing him down. Sam was right there, cradling the back of Castiel’s head with his hand, holding it off the pavement.

            “No, no, no-no-no-no…” Dean clapped a hand over the surge of blood spilling out of Castiel’s torn throat, but it wasn’t enough, and he _knew_ that.

            Their gazes crossed, and locked; Dean, feeling like everything around him was going numb, freezing. Castiel’s eyes, way too bright, just one question he couldn’t say with a hole in his neck; and he looked innocent and heartbroken, like a kid, the way he always looked at Dean, or Sam, every time he didn’t understand something, and wanted them to teach him how it was done.

One question: _Why_?

            And then there was that puff of light Dean had only seen a couple times before, and Castiel’s body slacked in his grasp.

            Dean’s eyes swung up to Sam; his brother was curled above Castiel’s head, more than just rainwater dripping off the tip of his nose. His eyes squinted up, his hand knotting into a fist in the hair on the back of Castiel’s head.

            Dean had felt a lotta anger in his life, toward a lotta people who’d pissed him off; hurt-rage, fake-rake, you-ate-the-last-oatmeal-cream-pie-rage.

            This was different; this was strangling, moving mountains, busting the foundation of planet earth _incensed._

            Dean heaved himself to his feet. “ _Stay here_.”

            It wasn’t hard to follow her; would’ve made more sense if she’d left a scent, but maybe Dean didn’t need one. He followed gut instinct and a slope uphill, the runoff from the rain almost tripping him up a couple times. Heading someplace he didn’t know, into a seedier part of town, and if that didn’t make sense, nothing else did.

            _Nothing else did_.

            He caught up to her five blocks away, because running in high heels? Not such a good idea. He didn’t let himself wonder why she ran, didn’t just teleport somewhere.

            Dean cracked his arm against the back of her neck, driving her up against the chain-link fence that circled around a privately-owned tavern on the edge of the street. His body smashed hers against the fence and it pushed them both back.

            When Dean yanked her around, she was grinning.

            “Hiya. _Deano_.”

            “You just wasted the wrong angel, you candy-ass _bitch_.”

            The first punch split Meg’s lip; second one dented her cheekbone. And after that Dean stopped paying attention; he laid into her, didn’t care if it was a vessel, didn’t care if she managed to get the one-up on him and pay him back hit for hit. He unloaded, everything—Toni Sam Castiel John Kaila Meg Castiel his _friend_ —on her face. And when he finally got a grip, finally pulled himself back, the _thing_ lying under him, pinned by his knees with his weight on its chest, didn’t even look _human_ anymore.

            Raw meat. That was all Dean could see.

            He picked her up by her throat, then slammed her head against the pavement. “Why him? Huh? _Why Cass_?”

            Dean caught a glimpse of one eye through a swollen lump that used to be an eyelid, and he realized he’d stunned her. They had a history, him and Meg, they went back a few years; she’d never seen him when he was this pissed, and lucky her. But this time she was the target, and Dean wasn’t letting her go.

            “J-just,” Her voice came out strangled around a dozen broken teeth. “Good. _Business_.” She spat blood on his shirt when she said it.

            Dean put his face in hers and didn’t hold back from shouting: “ _Whose business_?”

            “Kaila’s!” Meg sounded a little freaked. Good, she oughta be. “Sh-she said Castiel was on her trail and she needed him out of the picture.”

            Dean swiped a hand down his face, smearing blood into the stubble on his jaw.

            Meg smiled, a gash of ripped gums and broken teeth against splintered lips. “I gotta…say. Having that pompous little ass out of the way makes my job a _whole_ lot easier.”

            Dean slapped a hand down over her mouth and leaned in close. “You don’t have a job anymore.”

            He pulled the Colt out of the waistband of his jeans, put the muzzle to her temple, and blasted her head wide open. Brain matter and gore splattered the sidewalk and Dean rolled off of her, his back hitting the fence, staring at the ruined, blasted meatsuit that used to be Meg 2.0.

            With all of the rage laid into her face, the revenge sucked out ten minutes after the cause, Dean felt hollow. So hollow he barely felt himself moving; sliding the archangel blade, their greatest weapon against the Mohera, from Meg’s sleeve and into the loop on his belt; didn’t even really realize he was walking down the street until he was back in the alley, watching Sam lay his oversized hoodie on Castiel’s chest.

            Sam looked up, bloodshot eyes and running nose, and shivering in the rain. “We should, uh. We should burn his body. Like a hunter.”

            “I know.”

 

 

            They never saw Ciel. Not once. Not her, not the other angels. It was like they didn’t even freaking _care_ , and that was with Dean praying nonstop in his head. Not for them to bring Castiel back—in his experience, with angels, dead meant dead and _gone_. But maybe he just wanted to see them give a crap.

            They drove north, escaping the storms, stopping when they could inside the shelter of some trees, off the beaten path. They trimmed down trees and constructed the pyre, totally quiet, and Dean figured there was probably some kinda universal justice in Castiel dying, with them, instead of with the angels he’d been wolf-packing with his whole…existence.

            Justice. He snorted. Nothing _just_ about this whole thing. Fresh out of archangel training, Castiel had been looking at the future he’d always wanted. Maybe even with the Big Guy back Upstairs.

            And this was what he got instead.

            Dean wasn’t asking; they were burning Jimmy Novak’s body. Castiel was already long gone.

            They watched the flames climbing into the sky, finally dry-eyed; stoic.      

            “He died because he was trying to help us.” Sam murmured, watching the fire lick its way down the kindling.

            “Yeah.” Dean sniffed and rocked his weight.

            “That happens a lot.”

            “Sammy, don’t—”

            “I’m not blaming myself.” Sam interrupted him, softly. “I just…I can’t believe he’s gone. _Castiel_. I mean, he was just…he’s been here for so long, maybe I took him for granted. I never thought he’d actually bite it.”

            Dean hadn’t banked on that, either; after the miracles Bobby and Balthazar had worked to save him, after he’d gotten his ass kicked in a fight near Essex. After he’d helped them put the brakes on the Apocalypse, pulled Sam’s body out of the Cage, done everything he could to make sure Sam made it through the rough ride to get his memories back, after the fact.

            And he ended up stabbed in the throat.

            “Kaila’s out there.” Dean said. “We gotta find her.”

            “I know.”

            “We need to finish this. _Now_.”

            “I know, Dean.”

            Things got quiet, the whole world was navy blue from the sunset and orange from the fire, and Dean wanted to sit down, get wasted, and never get back up again.

            “D’you really think he’s out there?” Sam lifted his chin, probably just at the world in general. “With God?”

            “Man, I dunno.” Dean stabbed his toe on the leaf mold. “But I do know one thing. If anyone deserves that? It’s Cass.”

            Sam nodded, like maybe that actually helped him. And if it did, more power to him. Dean still wasn’t convinced.

            For Castiel’s sake, though, he figured the least he could do was try.

            When the fire had burned itself out most of the way, Dean saw Sam hunch his shoulders in the dim moonlight. “Now what?”

            “Now, nothing. C’mon.” Dean trudged back toward the car, feeling like someone had anchored his ass to the ground and he was dragging everything from the waist down behind him like a ball and chain. Sam stuck close to him, maybe needing comfort, maybe giving it.

            Dean reached over and squeezed the back of Sam’s neck before they separated to take different sides of the Impala.

            Sam opened his door, hesitated, then shut it. “Dean, wait a second.”

            Dean had a feeling there was a lecture on the way. “Can we not do this now?”

            “It’s not what you think.” Sam leaned his arms on the roof of the car. “You were right. What you said about me, back in Saint Augustine. I _am_ trying to prove a point. To…me, to you, I’m not really sure.”

            “Okay…”

            “These seizures take me out of the game, over, and over again, Dean.” Sam insisted. “And I wanted to take Zazerin’s deal. I did. But, when I wanted to say yes? All I could think about was how disappointed dad would be if I did it.”

            “You mean John.” Dean guessed.

            Sam nodded. “It’s like…it’s all I can think about. Finding him, getting him back. And Castiel told us they’re on the move. Maybe we can still track them down. As long as we know he’s alive. And maybe, if I can find him, then,” Sam broke off, flushing, staring down at his hands.

            Dean angled closer to him. “Then what? Sam?”

            “Then maybe I can prove that I’m strong enough to keep doing this.”

            Dean huffed a sigh. “Sam, you don’t have to prove a point to anyone. So do us both a favor, and quit trying.”

            “I’m sorry, Dean. But I have to do this.” When Dean pinned him with a cock-eyed stare, he shrugged his shoulders to his ears. “I have to prove it to myself.”

            Dean finally got a good look at his brother for the first time since the alley; Sam was worn-out, beat to hell in his own way, and still trying to keep it together. Their family had just shrunk by one, one more person—archangel—they couldn’t afford to lose, strategically, personally, you name it.

            That left them with two people who really mattered, outside of each other: Bobby. And John.

            And one of them was smack in the middle of this war.

            Dean snatched the door open and pointed at Sam with the keys. “All right, listen. We put everything on hold until this is over. You hear me? No more cases, no more hunting. Until we find John, _everything_ stops.”

            Sam slid in beside him. “Yeah, I agree.”

            Dean pulled out of the underbrush, aiming back toward the road; Sam pulled out their dad’s journal and a flashlight, tucked the flashlight between his chin and his shoulder and started jotting something down.

            It took Dean back; six years, hundreds of cases, back to one night that had launched their lives on runaway-crazy:

            _“Dad’s on a hunting trip. And, he hasn’t been home in a few days.”_

            In the dashboard lights, buried in that too-big hoodie, with the flashlight on and his head in a book, Sam coulda been twenty-two again. And Dean coulda been just another hunter out on the road, ready for some action.

            Everything was circling around, taking them right back where it all started:

Looking for dad all over again.

 

* * *

         

           

_All is not lost:_

_the unconquerable will, and study of revenge,_

_immortal hate,_

_and the courage never to submit or yield._ —John Milton

 


End file.
